


The Youngblood Chronicles

by Gabrielle16



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Youngblood Chronicles, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6451564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabrielle16/pseuds/Gabrielle16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fall Out Boy, aka the Defenders of the Faith, have found a mysterious briefcase. Inside is something dangerous that could potentially change the world. But they aren't the only people who want it, and unfortunately for the Defenders, they aren't the only ones who know where it is. When one by one the members are captured, the band is forced into a journey that changes them and could mean the end- not just of Fall Out Boy, but maybe all of Rock and Roll. </p><p>*Disclaimer* - this storyline is not mine. It based exactly on the video series of the same title and is 100% Fall Out Boy's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Phoenix

> **Hey youngblood. Doesn't it feel like our time is running out?**
> 
>  

"Saturday, where these open doors are open ended. Saturday! Saturday!"

The fans screamed. The stage went dark. Nothing like a crowd favorite to end the show. The lights came back on but only for a moment, as the boys waved and thanked the audience.

"You guys rock!" Patrick shouted into the mic before the lights were off again.  
The four of them, through the din of the applauding audience, quickly navigated their way off stage, around countless loose wires and sound equipment, through the dark; Pete first, followed by Patrick, then Andy, with Joe right behind him. Backstage was almost blindingly bright in contrast to the pitch black stage. The four of them squinted and blinked in the sudden light. As they headed towards the dressing room, they were met with choruses of ‘good show!’s and ‘great tour’s and ‘congrats guys! It's over!’s from the crew guys. It was the last show of their tour. They'd been on the road for two months and were finally going to be able to get some time to themselves. Three of them took it all in stride and smiled and chatted with the crew, returning congratulations and all that, but Patrick seemed oddly distracted. He didn't say anything or acknowledge anyone until they got to their dressing room. He was sitting in his chair staring vacantly into a mirror when Pete called him out on it.

"Dude, are you okay?" He asked, leaning his bass again the wall.

"What?"

"You're being super quiet." Joe told him, flicking his long curly hair out of his eyes.

"Oh." Patrick looked at them through the mirror. He thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, i have. Sorry. I'm just...thinking."

"Yeah, well, you've been ‘just...thinking’ for the entire show." Pete told him. "You've been off. Is everything alright?"

"What are you thinking about?" Andy asked.

Patrick bit his lip before turning his chair to face them. He adjusted his fedora to fix how it had slipped during the show and grabbed his glasses off of the desk. There was a nervous excitement gleaming in his eyes.

"I've been trying to figure out how to tell you guys, but i think i'm just going to show you."

"What?"

"Before we go back to the bus. Just follow me."

"Patrick, what are you-" Pete started to ask, but Patrick was already out of his chair and opening the door.

"Fans are waiting outside." He reminded them. "Great job everyone! That's a wrap!" He shouted smiling as the door fell closed behind him.

The three boys looked at each other, concerned. But one by one they followed Patrick out to the screaming fans standing en masse outside the arena. They spent a long time out there that night, signing things, talking to fans. Patrick was acting like himself again, chatting smiling, taking pictures. Hopefully that was all over, just a one time thing.  
They reached the end of the crowd. A chauffeur was waiting for them in a long black car. They all climbed in.

"Could we go to the place we discussed, please?" Patrick asked their driver. He nodded, revved the engine and pulled away from the arena.

"So...where are we going?" Joe prodded, not expecting him to answer.

Surprisingly, he did. "There's an empty warehouse up the road a ways." He told them.

"Oh of course." Joe nodded. "And why are we going to an empty warehouse?"

This time, Patrick didn't answer. He took a deep breath and let it out shakily as he turned to look out the heavily tinted window. Joe turned to Andy who shrugged, and Pete who's eyebrows were furrowed with concern. The night was dark. The lights from the city dotted the horizon. The sky was clear, even through the windows you could see stars.  
They reached their destination within minutes. It was a tall empty-looking building with a dim yellow light on the second floor. It seemed on the verge of collapse. The night air was cool as the boys got out of the car and stared at the building in apprehension.

"We'll only be a moment. Thanks for getting us here." Patrick told the driver. He looked up towards the second floor. "C'mon," he exhaled. He walked ahead of the others and they followed close behind. He was holding a strange silver metal briefcase with a 4-digit lock none of the others had seen before.

"What is that?" Andy whispered.

"Prob'ly what he's gonna show us." Joe answered, raising an eyebrow.

They walked into the building and up the stairs without saying a word. There was paint peeling off the walls. Chunks of ceiling were missing. A few of the steps had caved it or were crumbling. It was littered with cobwebs. This place had clearly not been used in a very long time. No one really knew how to react. This was not a situation like any of them had been in before. Patrick just didn't...act like this.  
They reached the second floor, through the brightly lit hall and into a dark room off the side. The only light source was the yellow light from just outside. In the room, there was a small table were Patrick set down the briefcase. He grabbed a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and set them next to it. Lights flickered on.

"Sorry about all this." He apologized. "I didn't want to open this somewhere where people could get hurt."

"Get hurt?" Pete repeated. "Patrick what is in that thing?"

He grinned suddenly. "You guys are gonna like this."

He entered the code on the side and the briefcase opened.

"Oh my god." Pete put his hands behind his head. As they fell, he glanced at Patrick, grinning. Patrick looked at him, smiling. Andy shook his head and grinned, rubbing his hands together. Joe nodded, smiling, mouth hanging slightly open.

"You found it."

They stared at the contents for another moment before glancing back at each other.

"What do we do now?" Joe asked.

Patrick held up the handcuffs and glanced at his wrist. "We can't lose it."

"Woah, dude doesn't that seem a bit extreme?" Pete warned.

"We can't leave it alone." Patrick insisted. "We don't want anyone to get to this. Joe, help me out please."

Joe hesitated, but locked one cuff around the handle of the briefcase and the other around Patrick's wrist. The cuff was mostly covered by his jacket sleeve. Besides the link now connecting him to the briefcase, only a bit of metal was visible, peeking out beneath his small tattoo. It was a trapezoid with a crown on top and three dots. They looked at each other grimly before nodding and returning to the faithfully waiting chauffeur.  
The bus made it back to Chicago by midnight. Patrick went straight home. Joe, Pete and Andy stayed out with the crew for a while before calling it a night. They tried to act normal but it was hard. Once they got over the initial excitement of finding it, they were uneasy. Something foul hung in the air. Something was coming.

 

-

 

Patrick woke up early. He had not been able to sleep. It probably had something to do with the briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. He wouldn't take it off. He hadn't even been able to get undressed; he was still wearing what he had been during the show, straight down to the leather jacket. He sat up and stared at the case. It hadn't been easy to get. There were some people who would do anything for it. After a moment he put his glasses and fedora and walked outside. He was starving, and there was not much food in his house; he'd been gone for two months. There was a pancake house just up the road. It wasn't a long walk. His neighborhood was pretty average looking. Most of the houses were pretty simple. The lawns were green and well manicured. The occasional car drove by. Patrick was walking fast. His mind was elsewhere. His feet carried him subconsciously in a sort of zigzagging pattern along the sidewalk. He was constantly looking around left and right, checking over his shoulder. As he reached the end of the block, a young boy on a bicycle turned the corner in front of him. They stopped and looked at each other. The boy had a white tank top on with a black beanie over his curly brown hair. Patrick started to smile at him and the boy smiled back. Suddenly, he felt a jolt on his neck, like an arc of lightning. He fell to the ground, passed out cold. A brunette in a balaclava and black heels slipped the tazer-like device back in her pocket and dragged him away.

He came back to his senses as a dirty sack was being ripped off his head. The first thing he noticed was the smell. It was a suffocating musty smell, like this room hadn't been used in a while. He choked on his breath. The air was damp and sticky. His hat and glasses had disappeared, but even that wasn't helping. He hadn't moved and there was sweat dripping own his forehead. His hair dangled loosely over his eyes. What even was this room? He opened his eyes and was immediately blinded by a bright light shining in them from a tall lamp. He blinked rapidly for a few seconds while they adjusted. He realized quickly that this light would be no help for seeing the room. He looked around, but everything out of the circle of light from the lamp was dark. It was hard to make out specific shapes. Probably a cellar of some kind. It was really cluttered, all the tables and shelves were covered in things. In the middle of the room there was a long wooden table, just as cluttered as the rest of the room, but with a light shining on it, similar to the intense one he was under. The only other light source was a tall window covered loosely by a ripped tarp that cast the room in a dim, eerie light and extended shadows in unnatural ways. Next to him was a small wooden table, an end table, that was clear except for a small silver tray with somethings on it. The fact that the table was empty in a room like this was enough to peak his interest, but at the angle he was at, and in the dim light, he couldn't see what was on the tray. Something was blocking his view. He started to move towards it and that's when he realized: that something was his hand. He was tied to a chair. His waist was roped to the back, his feet to the legs, one of his hands to the arm, the other attached to the table by a thick leather strap. His eyes immediately searched for the briefcase. It was still hanging from his wrist, the one on the table, dangling over the side of it. This made him nervous. He was able to quickly deduce what was happening. People wanted what was in this briefcase, and badly. It was only a matter of time before on of them got to him. Patrick strained against the ropes, trying to loosen them, to get out, and someone laughed. He stopped. His eyes slowly had adjusted to the light glaring onto his face, and he was able to make out the shapes of two women leaning against the wall, staring at him with raised eyebrows. They were both scantily clad in black leather with high ponytails and sharp, tall stilettos. One had black hair, one had brown. He stared back at them and his breathing shallowed. There was something terrifyingly intimidating about them. He gulped.

"Doesn't seem like much, does he?" One girl quipped to the other. Her voice was low and melodious. The two of them stood up straight and slowly began walking towards him.

"We'll see how he holds up." The brunette responded quietly. Their faces were sharp and angular with heavy, dark makeup.  
He squirmed as they reached his little circle of light. One of them walked around behind him, but the brunette sat on his lap with her legs on either side of his. Sweat beaded on his forehead causing his hair to lie flat, sticking to it.

"Patrick." She whispered into his ear, pushing his hair back. Her voice was huskier than her friend's. She was leaning uncomfortably close to him, her body pressing against him as she put her face close to his, with her hands holding tightly to the back of his head and neck. She flicked her tongue between her teeth, before dragging it slowly over the edge of his ear.  
Patrick flinched away, causing the girl's nails to dig a bit into his neck. Brushing her hair back, she looked at him, smirking at the mixture of fear and disgust on his face.

"You know you liked it." She said before forcing his mouth onto hers. Her lips were soft and wet and they were all over his. He tried to get away, but her hands were firmly holding him still. The ferocity with which she kissed him both frightened and aroused him.  
She was a good kisser. Patrick wanted to hit himself as soon as he thought it, but it was too late. The thought had taken seed in his mind and it was all he could think about. His mind was fogging over, sluggish. ‘I mean, why not?’ His mind asked him. ‘She started it.’ Slowly, he felt himself leaning forward onto her. He didn't know how it happened, but he was suddenly rivaling her ferocity, his face pressed against hers, their lips locked tightly together.  
She hadn't stopped, but he felt one hand leave the back of his head and reach over his arm, into the silver tray. Suddenly he remembered what was happening, were he was. He stopped immediately and tried to turned his face away from her. He had no idea what had come over him, but he was mortified. Now he had a sinking suspicion about what was on that tray. The other girl was laughing behind them. The brunette was smiling cruelly, her forehead resting on his, breathing hard.

"There are two ways we can do this." She hissed at him. "You see, you have something we want. Badly." She held up a sharp blade next to his face. The reflection of it glinted in his eyes. He should have known. "Now i am going to use this. The question is, do i start before or after you give it to us?"

He gulped. "Preferably not at all?" He managed.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but that's not an option." She kissed his cheek.

"Then after." He said, trying to lean away from her as she moved down to his neck.

"Where is the key to those handcuffs?" She mumbled through kisses.

He hesitated. "I can't tell you that."

She sighed and stopped, slowly getting to her feet. "Fine. Before it is."

Before he had time to react, the girl behind him shoved a gag into his mouth and the brunette raised her knife.  
-  
Pete woke late. The sun had already risen. Soft shadows danced around his room. It was quiet, except for his breathing. There was a blonde girl lying across from him. She had a round face and soft lips. She was beautiful. He felt bad that he could not remember her name at all. With a soft exhale, her long eyelashes parted and she opened her deep eyes. She smiled at him.

"Morning." Her voice was soft and melodious. He smiled back at her.

"Morning." He leaned over and gave her a light kiss. He realized that while he had a muscle shirt on, she had never bothered to put on a shirt after last night. She had the sheets scrunched up against her chest. He smiled again. He wasn't really sure what to say. "Do you want something to eat?" Pete asked politely, starting to get up. "I'm not sure what i have, but i you want something i can-"

"No," she laid her hand on his arm to stop him. "Why don't you stay with me a little longer."

He tried hard not to grin. "Okay." He lay back down, half under the sheet and staring into her deep eyes.

"You know, you were really drunk last night." She told him, smiling slightly.

"Yeah, i'm staring to feel it." He laughed. But it was true. His head hurt like a bitch.

"Was all last night just a side effect of that?" She asked, smirking.

"Hey now, i may not remember all of it, but it was definitely not all because of the alcohol." He brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "You're beautiful, you know that?"

She swatted his hand away, laughing. "You're still drunk, aren't you."

"Unfortunately not."

She laughed. "You're in a band right?" She asked after a moment.

"Yeah."

"Singer?"

"Bass guitar."

"Ooh. Sexy."

"Yeah, well, i try." He winked. She giggled.  
"What about you?"

"I work up at an office downtown." She shrugged. "Just filing mostly."

"You're kidding." Pete marveled. "Filing?"

"What? Didn't think i would get that high up in the world?" She grinned.

"You just don't strike me as-"

The doorbell rang, interrupting them. It echoed through his mostly empty house like a scream in a canyon. Pete peered over his shoulder down the hallway. He shivered and swallowed deeply.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah." He nodded, distracted. "I'll go see who it is. Be right back."

He got up and started down the hall. A sense of dread was settling over him and he didn't know why. He reached the stairs. He thought about the briefcase. He tried not to. It was the first he had thought about it since he had met that girl. What if someone were to come looking for it? What would happen to them? There were probably all sorts of folks looking to get their hands on this thing. He remembered why he drank so much last night.  
Pete got to the bottom of the stairs and rubbed his hands over his eyes. Over reacting. He was over reacting. Just nerves. It was probably just a sales guy or something. He was psyching himself out. He looked out the window. A kid on a bike with curly hair peeking out from under a beanie was riding fast down the street. He didn't see anyone else. He reached his front door. After taking a slow, deep breath, he opened it.  
No one was there. He looked up and down the street. No one. Not even that kid was visible anymore. The air was still and silent. He could hear his shaky breath just barely over the sound of his heavily beating heart. He looked down. Hanging on the doorknob was a white plastic bag. He grabbed it and opened it cautiously. Probably just a newspaper, right? Nothing to psych himself out about. He took a shaky breath. Inside was

A bloody hand.  
And not only that. A bloody hand with Patrick's tattoo on it.  
Pete closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Dammit." He muttered, through a strained voice before stepping back inside and slamming the door behind him. "Dammit." He said again, much louder. He kicked the wall.  
This was bad. Really bad. Just really fucking bad. He caught his reflection in the mirror hanging from his wall. His face was gaunt and pale. His eyes looked sunken in, his face stuck in an expression of horror. He ran into the bathroom and ran cold water through his fingers and wiped his hands on his face.  
"Dammit," he repeated again, staring into the mirror. "I told him." He promised his reflection. "I fucking told him. I swear i-"

He stopped. He should have known this would happen. Why did he let Patrick go off on his own? Why the hell didn't he check on him? He should have stuck with him. What had he been thinking? Who knew if he was even alive? No. No. He was alive. They'd be able to get him back. They had to. Patrick couldn't be-... No. He pushed the thought out of his mind.  
He still had the bag in his hand. He couldn't bring himself to look at it. Shaking, he shoved it in the shelf under the sink. Later. He wasn't sure what he would do with it, but his breath was already steadying now that he couldn't see it. Pete began pacing frantically back and forth across the small room. He had no idea what to do. His best friend's hand was just cut off. His best friend...Dammit. And that meant who ever had him had the briefcase. They had the briefcase! It was his fault he should have... He was powerless in this and they, who ever they were, knew it.  
He needed to call Joe and Andy. Most likely, they would have no idea what was happening. He ran to the phone hanging on the wall in the hallway and dialed Joe's number. A dead tone. The line had been cut. "Shit." He slammed it back on the wall. He reached in his pocket for his phone. It was not there. Maybe he left it in the bedroom. Rushing up the stairs, his heart racing, Pete tried to think of where he could have left it. His nightstand? His jacket? His other pants? Maybe that girl had seen it.  
Oh shit. The girl. The girl! He'd just left her. He sped up. But when he got to the room though, she was gone. The room was empty. A soft breeze blew through the previously unopened window. He shivered and walked across the room to close it. As his perspective changed, he noticed something black lying on his bed. Small black pieces of... His heart sank. His phone was smashed to bits, as if someone had taken a hammer to it, though how he didn't hear that was beyond him. He scooped the pieces into his hand and stared at them for a moment.  
"Dammit." He muttered aloud for the fourth time, before throwing the pieces onto the floor. The little black pieces hit the ground and scattered, mirroring the girl's black leather clothing that had been strewn across his floor the night before.

 

-

 

Andy couldn't find his car. It wasn't that he'd lost it, or misplaced it, exactly, but he couldn't find it. Before the tour, he'd left it in a parking lot. But that had been months ago and now there were a bunch of new cars. He paced, irritated, up and down the rows. Every car looked the same. He'd been doing it for what seemed like hours, but had probably been only about ten minutes. He'd come to the lot immediately after the breakfast he'd eaten just a bit earlier that morning. He'd slept in later than usual. It had been a long night out on the town, so to speak.  
The cry of a bird pierced the air. Andy looked up. Was that... It looked like Pete's falcon. But that couldn't be right. Pete didn't just have his falcon fly around the city. He honestly wasn't sure why Pete had gotten a falcon in the first place. It wasn't really practical in a big city and when they were on tour. Nevertheless, Pete had bought a falcon. Maybe he knew he'd see it and wanted him to go talk to him. Why would he want to though? And why send that bird? They had just seen each other last night. He thought of the briefcase. What if something had happened to Patrick? But then again, why wouldn't Pete just call him?  
He squinted his eyes behind his shades. The bird was haloed by sunlight. Was it even really Pete's?

A big black van pulled up in front of him. The side door was sliding open. By the time his stopped looking at the bird to react, someone was pushing him into the van. He felt her nails dig into his back as he was shoved roughly forward. He toppled over into the back of the car, the girl on top of him. He caught a glimpse of her blond hair before the door slammed shut and they were encased in total darkness. He gasped for breath. Around him, he could hear the breathing of at least two girls. He started to scream for help, but something heavy hit him on the back of his head and he passed out cold.

 

-

 

Joe's car was out of gas. Like, it was completely running on empty. He had been driven home late last night and had immediately just crashed. When he had woken up in the morning his car had 15 miles left. He could have sworn he had filled it up before the tour, but he must have left it running, or something. He had just enough gas to get him to the gas station. Upon getting out of his car, he snatched up a cigarette. It was hard to smoke as a performer, but he was managing. After all, he wasn't Patrick. He didn't have to have the voice of an angel. He lit the cigarette.  
‘Why are gas prices so high?’ he wondered to himself and he grabbed the nozzle. He was the only person at the station. Even the little store looked empty. He shivered and exhaled a puff of smoke. The more he thought about it, the more sure he was his tank had been full when he had left. Why was empty now? If the car had been running for two months, the battery would be dead, but that was working fine. Someone must have done something, tampered with his car somehow. Joe started to fill the valve. Maybe he was over reacting. He'd probably just left the compartment open, or some stupid shit like that.  
Though, it did seem strange that he had had just barely enough to get to the closest gas station.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye. Taking the nozzle with him, he turned and looked up at the sky. His cigarette fell out of his loose lips. What the hell? Was that Pete's falcon? It certainly looked like it. He thought of the briefcase and started to back up. Pete wouldn't send the bird out if it weren't-

A hand reached from behind him and shoved a cloth in front of his face. She tackled him to the ground. He tried to cry out but the girl's hand and the cloth covered his mouth. He started to struggle, but he was already beginning to feel drowsy. The cloth must have been laced with something. He tried to keep his eyes open, but he just couldn't. The nozzle fell limply from his fingers. It hit the asphalt as the girl dragged him away towards a black van.

 

-

 

The city was beautiful. There was no denying it. The way the building stretched towards the sky. It cut such a striking image. And the weather was perfect. There were hardly any clouds in the sky and the air was crisp and clean.  
Pete was able to take all of this in. He was trying to clear his head. He had time on the roof waiting for his falcon to return. Yes, okay, he had sent a falcon to find his friends, and maybe that was sort of extreme, but he was desperate. None of his phones were working and he had made a hasty decision. As he waited for the bird to return he had time to reflect on this choice. Maybe it had been a kind of stupid thing for him to do.  
He saw it returning on the horizon. It's wings were spread in a majestic arch. He held out his arm, fully equipped with his falconry glove for the fowl to land on. He was confused when it didn't. He watched as the bird landed on a telephone wire. He stared at it. Why wasn't-

He heard the sharp click of heels behind him. He began to turn around when her arm wrapped around his front and plunged a syringe deep into his neck. Immediately he could feel his eyelids drooping. She lowered him to the floor. Before he passed out completely, he caught a glimpse of his attacker. She had dark eye make up and lipstick and long wavy blond hair. He thought he must have been crazy, but it looked just like the missing filing girl from that morning.


	2. Young Volcanoes

> **We are wild. We are like young volcanoes.**

 

The table was covered in food. All kinds. There was apples, some sort of stuffing, multiple covered platters, even an entire pig. A feast. It was an extremely fancy table, the size of one you might find in a chic rich, upper class dining room. The wood was stained a deep dark color that matched the chairs around it. An array of candles were scattered down it's center. They illuminated the table itself, but everything beyond that was cast in shadows. There was something hanging above them, but it too was hard to make out. It had wires that stretched down to the table below it. He couldn't see what was attached to the end of them because of all of the food that was blocking his view. The room smelled sickly and sweet, like overripe fruit. It was a nauseating aroma that made one feel gross on the inside. The air was humid and sticky. Moisture collected in small bulbs on nearly every surface.  
At the head of the table, Patrick was tied to one of the fancy chairs. His entire torso was wrapped in rope, keeping him secure against the back of the chair. His elbows were tied also, so that he could move his upper arms at least. He drowsily opened his eyes. His hands and face were caked with blood. His shirt and hair were damp with a disgusting mixture of blood and sweat. He groaned and leaned his head back. Everything hurt. The soft breeze stung his open wounds. Every time he moved he could feel fresh blood dripping down his skin. The only skin he was able to see were his hands. Well, hand. His right hand was there, able to move, stained red and in agonizing pain. At the end of his left arm, just a bloodied wad of cloth. But he could feel it. Or rather, the lack of it.

"Oh my god." Patrick blanched. He felt sick. It had really happened. Those girls really honestly had cut of his hand. The cloth was loose and as he shook his arm, part of it slipped off. He gagged and almost passed out again. His arm just ended. Instead of his hand there was a bloodied, raw stump. Parts of it had blackened. His arm around it was stained the deep red brown of blood. When the wind hit it, it stung as if lemonade had been pored on it.

He stopped looking.

His mind raced with the events of this morning. Was it really just this morning? They had tortured him for what had felt like hours. Those girls had done everything to him that they could think of short of killing him; he had been cut and sliced with knives and scalpels and everything in between. His screams echoed against the walls. He had screamed himself hoarse, screamed until his throat burned and his lungs felt like they were going to collapse into themselves. His voice still did not sound quite right But he would not tell them where the key was. So they didn't stop. He had stayed tied to the chair as they tried to practically crave answers out of him.  
However, it wasn't long before the brunette had gotten fed up. After who knows how long, she growled in frustration and, raising a bloody butcher knife high above her head, she had chopped his entire hand clean off.  
The pain was unbelievable. He'd screamed so loud he couldn't hear himself. Blood practically pored from his exposed wrist and pooled at his feet. His face had been streaked with tears of pure agony. His eyes were squeezed impossibly tight. He couldn't breathe. He started to feel lightheaded. Brunette brought the knife back near her face and licked it. He had wanted to throw up.  
She was true to her word. Even after all this, after they had the briefcase, after they got what they wanted, they didn't let him go. They didn't even give him a break. After carelessly pushing the junk off the table and onto the floor, the girls untied him. Once he was free to move, all he could do was curl up in pain. His other hand went to stump of an arm and tried to do anything it could to stop the bleeding. He whimpered and rocked back and forth in place. That made it easy for them to move him onto the table. He cried out when ever they laid a hand on him, but they did not seem to care. They straightened him out along the length of the surface and he yelped.

"Shhh." The black haired girl had warned.  
Patrick had whimpered and struggled to keep his mouth closed. He started hyperventilating as the brunette passed her friend some sort of pliers. He had kept his eyes trained on her hand as she leaned over him and dragged the metal seductively down his face.

"Don't worry, Patrick," she smiled sweetly, her face a mask of false sympathy, "the worst is behind you."

Brunette sniggered. "Come on now. Tell him the truth." She scolded in a falsely condescending tone.

Her friend just smiled cruelly and dug the pliers shallowly into his chest.  
He had wanted to ask why. Why they were doing this to him, what they wanted from him? They had what they had asked for. But he kept his mouth shut. And even if she had not warned him, he doubted he would have used his voice to ask any sort of logical questions. It probably would have been something more along the lines of "oh my god stop ow shit god ow". Somehow he managed to keep his lips together, whimpering softly through them, most of the expression in the tears running down his cheeks.  
But eventually it became too much for him to stay quiet. They laughed as he screamed.

At some point he had finally passed out. And then he was here. And everything hurt. Here, looking at all this food. Suddenly, he remembered why he had even left his house in the first place. He had not eaten anything since before the end of the tour. He was starving. However, something about the food here seemed wrong. Maybe it had something to do with the overripe smell, but none of it looked the least bit appetizing. Even the color looked off. And there was something about the covered dishes... It just put him off. In fact, just by looking at it all, he was quickly losing hid appetite.  
So he didn't move. His head hung limply on his neck. He did not have the strength to hold it up. His right hand twirled around off it's own accord, probably reminding his brain that it, at least, was still there. Other than that, he just sat still in the stiff, fancy chair in silence at the head of an unsettling meal.

-

Metal gears screamed when the girl pressed the button, calling for the elevator. She had warned them not to make any noises, so the three men were just standing next to each other in silence. They were still drowsy and stumbled into one another when they were pushed into the elevator. It did not help that none of them could see. At some point in that back van, they all had had thick black blindfolds tied tightly over their eyes. Their wrists had been bound with scratchy rope. They had a very hard time keeping their balance.  
Even without talking, they all knew who was standing next to them. They had spent copious amounts of time together, learning one another's breathing patterns, how they stood, what their footfall sounded like. They knew who they were with. And they had guessed why. They didn't know where they were going, but they knew were going there together.  
The air was damp and musty. The building was cold; uncomfortably so. The walls and floor felt like solid concrete. They shivered as the elevator started screaming again. It moved unbearably slowly and never stopped squeaking. It was a constant, high pitched shriek that did not seem like it would ever dim or fade. The lower the elevator went, the mustier and more suffocating the air around them became. As he struggled to take in a sufficient amount of air, Andy let out a small cough.

"I said silence." The girl snapped, irritated.

Joe stared at where he thought he heard her voice coming from. He raised his eyebrows. "You are kidding right? All he did was cough."

A girl he did not know was behind him grabbed his arms and pulled him back, holding him in place. He started to struggle against her when he heard the slow click of the other girl's heels advancing towards him. There was a sudden white-hot pain in his cheek when her hand made contact with his face.

"Joseph," she sighed, taking his chin tightly between her fingers, "twice now, i believe, i have said the word ‘silence’. Maybe i didn't make myself clear." She took her other hand and began repeatedly punching him in the stomach. "When i say ‘silence’," she started. Joe groaned and started to double over, but the girl behind him pulled him up to his upright position. "I mean," she continued, "shut the hell up!" She ended practically yelling into his ear. "I don't want to hear your voice! I don't want to-"

"Stop it." Pete said loudly. His voice was shaky and he was terrified, but he did not want this woman hurting Joe.

Surprisingly, she did stop. The other girl let go of Joe and he collapsed to the ground. He spat something out of his mouth that made his mouth taste like the iron-y tang of blood. He was taking in multiple rapid, deep breaths. The woman was still facing the place where Joe hand been held up. She had not moved.  
"What did you just say to me?" She asked. Her voice was dangerously low.

"I said cut it out." Pete swallowed.  
The girl seemed to turn to face Pete after that. The click of her heels got louder as she neared him. He backed up, trying to keep a constant distance between them, but all too soon he hit the wall. "He gets it. We all get it." He continued, speaking faster. "Silence. You like it quiet."

"Hmm." She got right up in his face. "Peter, is that why you are still running your mouth?"

Pete did not respond immediately. He kept his face towards her. She was so close, he was able to feel her hot breath on his skin. It was steady and confident, quite the direct opposite of his own. Everyone in the elevator could probably hear his heart completely beating out of his chest.

"What the hell did you do to Patrick?" He asked cooly, trying to keep his voice steady.

"You're a brave one, aren't you." She growled appraisingly. He could here the smirk on her lips. "How's about we play a little game?" She whispered, her lips brushing up against his ear as they moved. "I don't tell you about any of the terrible, agonizing, painful shit our dear friend Patrick has gone through this morning," she took her time, slowly and carefully annunciating every word, "and in return, you don't open your god damn mouth again. Sound like fun?" She asked, speaking in a normal volume again. "I certainly think it does." She started to walk away without waiting for his answer.

"I don't-" she spun around faster than Pete thought possible, especially in those wicked stilettos, and lashed out her hand. She hit him so hard that he slammed roughly onto the floor. Andy stared to rush forward towards him, but another unknown woman held him back.

"Don't move." She hissed at him. He froze.

Pete groaned and tried to get up, but as soon as he got to his knees, she kicked him in the stomach.

"You boys sure do have a problem with rules." She snarled.

The elevator stopped. There was silence. The door screeched open. She sighed happily.

"Finally. Get him up." She indicated to Joe, who was still on the floor. She herself hauled Pete to his feet by the scruff of his jacket and got right close to his face again. "Courtney said we could do whatever we wanted with you before the experimental stage. So, i would say it's time to have a little bit of fun."

The two other girls laughed as the three of them led the boys into a dark corridor. The hallway was full of girls in black leather. They laughed and reached out at the boys. They would stroke their arms and run their fingers through the boys' tangled hair. Terror was beginning to set in. It was dawning on them that this was real, that they had been kidnapped, that they were virtually unable to escape. It wasn't long before the boys started screaming for someone, anyone to help them. Get them out. Please. This just made the girls laugh harder. They kept shouting as girls began to push them and jeer. They tried to run, but the girls from the elevator still had a firm grip on them, holding them back. So they walked, slowly, down the hall trying to shield themselves from the girls they couldn't see, begging for help. At least one of these girls had to feel even a little bit of empathy. Right?

Evidently not.

They were turned around the corner. It was darker here. They could tell even through the blindfolds. The only people in this hallway were themselves and the three girls. Or was it four now? The air was thicker and heavier, mustier than it had been even in the elevator. Oddly enough, while she disliked their talking, the girl still holding Pete seemed okay with them screaming. It was a noise she seemed to enjoy, to thrive in. The hallway got more narrow. The girls shoved the boys in front of them, told them to keep walking. They didn't dare try to run. Honestly, the boys had no clue what all these girls were capable of. They did not even know who they were or who they worked for, who this 'Courtney' was, or why they even wanted the briefcase to begin with. Most importantly, they did not know if the girls were above killing them, and that was a chance none of then wanted to take. There was a door at the end of the hall. A dim light was emanating from inside of it. One by one, the girls took the shouting boys by the arm and forcefully and swiftly led them into the room.

-

He had heard them coming. He had heard them coming from very far away. At one point, he'd only heard silence, just the sound of his own unsteady and weak breathing. Then he heard the distant painful screech of gears, like a broken bus break. Then came the jeers and laughs of dozens of girls. He had shivered at those. He knew all too well what those meant. But worst of all were the screams. He had recognized them immediately. It was Pete. It was Andy. It was Joe. And they were getting closer. They sounded terrified. He would have done anything to make them stop. But he couldn't and no one was offering. Soon he was able to make out some of the words.

"Help! Somebody. Anybody! Help, please! Ow. Shit. Let go of me, you complete bitch! Dammit. Help us please!"

It was good to know Pete had not lost his fiery nature, nor bad sense of language.

The girls burst in a door Patrick had not seen previously, yanking the boys along with them. They were still yelling as they were forced in the other chairs around the table. Andy and Joe were placed on either side of him, with Pete on the opposite end of table. The girls bound them similarly to how Patrick was bound. Only Patrick did not have a blindfold. They had left the other boys' on. They screamed louder as the girls pulled the ropes tighter. They were also bound at the wrists as well as the elbows. It seemed the girls did not like how they were thrashing around so much.

"Pete." He tried to call out. "Guys. It's me." But his voice was still too damaged from that morning. He couldn't even hear himself over their screams. They continued to thrash around while the girls wrestled them into place. They seemed to like Joe's hair a lot. They kept stroking it. When they let go, his friends continued to struggle against the ropes. He looked at them sadly.  
A fourth girl walked in behind the other three. She took her time walking leisurely into the circle of light. Patrick's eyes widened in mild terror when he saw her. It was the Brunette.

"Hey there sweetheart." She flirted, running her hand lightly from the top of his head down to his knee. He flinched and she cackled.

"Alright, stop flirting." The blonde one rolled her eyes and brunette sighed and joined the other three.

The vixens then shared an unsettling smile. Patrick watched in horror as they, in unison, reached toward the thing hanging above the table. Each of them grabbed one of the wires. His eyes widened. It was an IV. One girl went to each boy and jabbed the end of it into their hand, taping it down. They were all struggling too much to notice, but Patrick wasn't. He stared her down and begged with his eyes. Please. Don't come anywhere near me. Whatever was in it was clear and odorless, and, based on the girls' evident glee, it was something bad. He strained against the ropes. No. No, please. Everything hurt. His body was begging him not to move. Blood had started trickling down his skin again. But his wrist was bound to tight. He could not get out.

"Careful Patrick, love." The girl purred. She tenderly stoked his hair behind his ear. "You don't want to pull your other hand off." She grinned wickedly before jamming the IV in his lower arm. He yelped as loud as his raw throat would let him. She secured the injection with a piece of tape as she laughed.

He had no idea what sick drug was being injected into them, but he wanted it out. But there was no way for him to reach it. He trued and failed. Multiple times. He probably looked ridiculous, but he didn't care. Anxiously, Patrick looked down the table at the expressions of his friends. Each of them seemed to be slowly calming down. This did nothing to ease his nerves.

‘Why are you worried?’ A small voice in his mind asked. ‘They are calming down. They are not scared anymore. That is good.’

‘No it's not.’ He responded to himself. ‘There is nothing good about that. They should be terrified.’

‘They should?’ The voice questioned. ‘That's not a very nice thing to make them go through. Don't you want your friends to be happy?’

‘I mean, yeah of course i do, but we have no idea what these girls are going to do to us.’ Patrick insisted. ‘We are all in serious trouble.’

‘These girls?’ The voice scoffed. ‘You don't need to worry about them. They won't hurt your friends.’

‘They cut my hand off." He reminded them, frustrated.

‘That was an unfortunate accident. They would never have hurt you on purpose. Look at them.’ He looked. ‘They are such nice girls. You and your friends aren't in danger. Just relax.’

‘Relax?! I'm tied to a chair! My friends have been kidnapped! I only have one fucking hand!’

‘Shhh. You're working yourself up. Everything is fine. You feel good.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You feel good.’ The voice said again.

‘Are you joking?’

‘Can't you tell? Just think about it. Think about how good you feel. What could be making you feel any better?’

‘I...’ He stopped. Maybe the voice was correct. Nothing was wrong currently, right? He certainly couldn't call anything to mind.

‘See?’ The voice cooed. ‘Don't you feel good?’

‘No. No, i definitely do not feel good.’ He shook his head. This was just the drug talking. What ever drug they were pumping into his blood. ‘I don't feel good at all. I feel...’ he thought about it. ‘I feel...i...i feel really good.’ He smiled. He just let the words ease out. It was true.  
He did feel good. Great, in fact. He had not felt this at peace in weeks. Nothing was stressing him out. He would be fine. He was surrounded by his closest friends and hot girls. What more could he want? That voice was probably right. These girls wouldn't hurt them. They really were good people. They had even set up a whole big dinner for them. That was so nice of them. They didn't have to do that. In the bowl of apples he noticed movement. He turned his head to get a better look and started laughing. He couldn't stop. What kind of people let their pet snake just go where ever they wanted? That was so silly.  
He looked up at the other boys. They were sitting still, calm. He was glad they weren't too freaked out anymore. He felt lightheaded, but that was okay. It was better than all the pain he'd been feeling for the rest of the morning. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the girls poring a deep red liquid out of a silver pitcher and into a clear glass. Wine maybe? As he watched, that hot brunette came over to him and offered some for him to drink. Well, she didn't exactly offer it. It was more along the lines of she held the glass up to his lips and was tipping the liquid slowly into his mouth. He could not quite remember why he wasn't using his hands, but at this point, he wasn't complaining. He liked how she was helping him. And this drink; he had no idea what it was, but he liked it. He wanted more. Streaks of red dribbled down his chin as she tilted the cup almost upside down so that he could get the last of it. He giggled and she smiled at him. Maybe things would be okay. Food? Drink? He was hungry. Starving, in fact. How had they known?  
Then more girls showed up, holding some sort of tubes. Patrick eyed them curiously. Hookahs, he thought they were called. One was passed to his sexy brunette friend. She laid the tip of it in between his lips and he inhaled deeply. He could feel some sort of smoke filling his mouth and throat.

‘Maybe you should stop.’ A small voice that sounded like his own told him. But that voice seemed far away and unimportant. Besides, why would he want to stop? So, he had not ever smoked before. People told him it would hurt his lungs and make it harder for him to sing. Honestly though, at that time, none of that really mattered to him. These girls had wanted him to, so he did. And he was actually kind of liking it. Around the table, his friends seemed to be enjoying themselves. Joe was smoking like a pro. Patrick remembered he smoked regularly, so he knew what he was doing. Maybe he even knew what they were smoking. Across the table, Pete blew smoke into one of the girl's faces. She laughed. See? Everything was fine. So, he pushed the thought aside and exhaled the smoke in a thick cloud.  
Just as quickly as the glasses had been rushed away, so too was the smoke. He kind of wished it wasn't, but at the same time, he was curious to see what they would bring out next. It didn't take long for his curiosity to be appeased. Each girl walked out with a silver tray. His eyes followed it as she lifted it over his head and knelt down next to him on the other side of his chair. On the tray there was a array of different colored substances (bath salts, maybe?), all of which had their own overwhelming scent. The smells mixed in his nose and made him feel giddy.

‘Patrick, seriously, stop.’ It was his voice again.

‘Leave me alone.’ He told it. His internal voice did not sound like his own nearly as much as the other one did.

‘These things cause powerful, vivid hallucinations. You won't be able to tell what's real and wha-’

‘So?’ He asked, irritated.

‘So?! Are you kidding?’ The voice gaped. ‘You won't be able to tell what these utter...vixens are doing to you!’

‘These girls are not going to do anything.’ He insisted, scoffing. ‘And i'd like you to get out of my head. Leave me alone!’ He huffed in frustration before taking the straw from the girl.

The voice went silent.

-

Pete roared with laughter. As soon as he had started, he could not remember what had been so funny, but he didn't really care. It must have been something the girl next to him had said. He couldn't see her, but he had figured it was the hot blonde. He always seemed to end up being around her, which, hey, that was fine by him. And she kept giving him stuff. Drinks, drugs. It was great. He was having a blast.  
He could smell something. It smelled good. Steam from it was rising against his face, making him feel hot. Suddenly she was shoving something into his mouth. He started chewing it without question. It was some kind of meat. It was slimy and didn't taste like anything he had eaten before, but it was delicious. When he bit into it, salty juices oozed out and onto his tongue. Some of it seeped out of his mouth and beaded on his lips. He licked them clean. He wanted more. He could smell her holding something right in front of his face. Without finishing what he was chewing, he allowed her to tip the spoon of food into his mouth. It was some kind of bread-stuffing. It was grainy and tasteless. He remembered, once, he had eaten something like this before. It had been at a family thing of some sort, probably Thanksgiving, and he had hated it. One bite of this stuff and he had spit it out. It was horrible. But at that moment, it was one of the best things he had ever eaten. The spoonful she had fed him was so large he hadn't been able the fit all of it in his mouth. He ran his tongue over the crevices of his lips to get every last bit of it.  
The room seemed to suddenly get lighter. It felt cooler and not so humid. He could not tell what was happening, though, because of the blindfold over his eyes. Wait, why was he wearing a blindfold? He reached up and pulled it off. Honestly he wasn't sure why he hadn't done that earlier.  
Everything was bright. The table was covered in the most delicious looking food. Fruits and meats fit for kings. Hanging above the center of the table was a large disco ball. He must have ended up at some kind of party. This was awesome. Next to him were Andy and Joe and at the opposite end of the table was

"Patrick!" He shouted, elated. He couldn't figure out why, but it was a huge relief to see him.

"Pete!" He shouted back, grinning. He was as happy as he had ever seen him. This thrilled Pete to no end.

Next to him, Andy and Joe were taking off their blindfolds as well. Why had they been wearing blindfolds?  
The four of them laughed. They weren't sure why, but it seemed fitting. Then, as if their lives depended on it, they began loading their plates with food. He tried to get a but of everything. It all looked so good. Eventually, he ended up with another glass of the red drink. It wasn't wine and it definitely wasn't fucking koolaid, but damn, was it good. Poring it in a glass, he took another deep swig. It was sort of thick, almost salty. He quickly swallowed half of it, and spat the other half out like a fountain. Beads of red liquid dotted the air. Everyone laughed and he passed the glass jug to Joe.  
For a while, the four of them just ate and chatted, like anyone would at a party with friends. It didn't seem like they would ever run out of topics to discuss. It was as if they hadn't seen each other in years. Girls massaged their shoulders. They tried as much of the food as they could. Then more drugs were passed out.  
Joe continued smoking next to him. Pete ended up with blue bath salts smeared across his face. Patrick had a dazed, but ultimately contented expression on his face.  
Then, more girls showed up. Then things really got going. The four of them almost simultaneously got to their feet. Why had they been sitting this whole time? Probably just because it was a dinner, right? Girls would get up against them and whisper things and feed them.  
As the party moved on, things got crazier. The disco ball span wildly. Food and drink were flying through the air. Girls started pulling off their jackets revealing black leather bras, and sometimes they'd take off those too. All the while, the four of them were laughing and eating, eating, eating so much. The lights became blindingly white. The girls suddenly had masks that were pig-faces. They were a little too realistic. Eating, laughing. Everything seemed to be going so fast. It didn't seem like it would ever stop-

-

The blonde vixen exhaled slowly and surveyed her handiwork. Many of the plates were empty, everything had at least been tried. The boys, still tied to the chairs, blindfolds on, were knocked out, completely unconscious. Their heads lolled, heavy on their necks, their eyes closed, their lips parted slightly. Occasionally one of them would mumble something, or twitch their fingers. Unresponsive, defenseless, at their mercy. Some girls still lingered around them, stuffing little bits of "food" into their open mouths. She smiled. This had been a good day. Her only regret was that she had not gotten to play with Patrick herself. That had seemed like a lot of fun. The brunette certainly had a blast. However time had simply not allowed. Someone had to distract Pete from checking in on him, and she had been willing to volunteer. More than willing. And she hadn't been disappointed in the slightest.  
But this, this had been fun. She didn't know that exactly the boys thought they were doing, but even some of her girls had been surprised that they had actually gone through and eaten everything they had been given. She wasn't surprised though. Amused? Yes. Surprised? Definitely not. After everything that they had given them, they had those boys wrapped around their fingers. They would have done what ever they had been asked. And boy, will they feel horrible later. Headaches, stomach pains. They'd probably get sick, especially once they realized what they'd done. Her dark eyes sparkled with glee.

"Leave them." She waved her hand over her shoulder at the other girls. "We've got work to do. They're definitely not going anywhere."

There was a smattering of laughter as the girls followed her out of the room and back down the dark hall, to prep four different rooms, leaving the boys live out their delusions for a little while longer.


	3. Alone Together

> **Let's be alone together. We can stay young forever. Screaming from the top of your lungs.**

She held the briefcase in her hand. It hung loosely in her fingers. She wasn't worried. Those boys were the only ones who knew it was here, and they certainly weren't going to be able to take it. Her heels clicked on the tile, echoing throughout the empty hallway. It was empty, save for her. The echoes traveled down the building, really showing the size of it. It was an old hospital, abandoned years ago. It was thought to be haunted. She smiled. It was so fitting. No one else would be coming for a while. The boys were ready. They would be waking up any moment. That would please her. All that was left to do was to deliver the package. That would please her even more.  
She reached the backdoor, which opened with a soft creek. The sharp click of tile changed to the muffled sound of wet, hard concrete. The door opened to a sort of alleyway behind the hospital. It was raining, but she couldn't have cared less. Water splashed into the air and her shoes landed in puddles. The water glistened in the orange streetlight which shone brilliantly off the sleek black car that sat, not inconspicuously, in the alleyway. She swallowed deeply and walked, with a firm resolve, towards the car. Nothing to be worried about. She had never gotten to deal with Courtney directly before. In fact, she was almost excited. Something to brag about anyway.  
When she reached the backseat, the window rolled down, but only about halfway. She couldn't see into the car, but she knew, without a doubt, who it was. A long, pale, spidery hand emerged from the partially opened window. It stopped, palm up, outstretched and waiting. She held out the briefcase delicately and the hand clasped firmly around the handle, careful that neither of them would drop it. The hand retreated back into the car without a word and the window rolled back up. She paused for barely a moment, before turning sharply on her heels and striding back into the old hospital. They were awaiting her return. All was well. She entered the building and clicked her stilettos back down the empty hall.  
Behind her, the car loudly revved it's engine before speeding off into the darkness of the night.

-

Joe woke up slowly. His head ached. It felt heavy on his neck. He could barely remember anything from the night before. There had been food and... His headache got worse as he strained his brain, trying to remember. He wasn't certain he'd ever felt this hungover.  
He started to open his eyes and regretted it almost immediately. There was a bright spotlight blaring on his face on either side of him, like he was center stage in a play. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust himself to the light. When he tried to shield his eyes with his hands, he couldn't. He could not lift his arms. It wasn't like they were incredibly heavy or paralyzed, or anything of that nature. He could move them just fine. It was more like they were tied across his front, like he was wearing-  
He looked down and had to close his eyes and open them to make sure that this was really what he was seeing. 

He was wearing a straightjacket. 

He immediately began thrashing back and forth on the uncomfortable stool he was seated on. There had to be a way out of this thing. He tried to push his arms away from his chest, to twist it off, pull something loose. 

"Let me out!" He screamed. 

He winced at the volume of his own voice. He hadn't been able to see it when he had been squinting like a mole, but there was a sliver, old fashioned microphone on a stand directly in front of him. He steeled his resolve and tried again. 

"Someone, help me!" He shouted before letting out an agonized wail. 

With this mic, maybe someone would hear him. If he was loud, someone might come and-  
The door opened. In walked three small girls, children, dressed like they were ready to go to some sort of catholic school, with long hair held back in tight ponytails. They had creepy smiles on their faces as they walked in circles around him. 

Joe didn't like children. Well, no, that's not exactly true. He didn't like creepy children. They were much worse than creepy adults. And you could reason with adults. Or you could at least try. 

He liked the even less when they began taunting him. Their walk in circles sped up and the waved their hands around their faces and shrieked. It was all very immature, but the ferocity with which they were interacting with him was incredibly intimidating and unnerving. He tried to shift away from them, but they were always on all sides of him. Just when all their constant circling was starting to make him dizzy, one kid left the circle and the other two followed her. Joe allowed himself a moment of relief, but the girls weren't leaving the room. They made their way to a table that he hadn't seen before. It was had produce scattered across it: eggs, cabbage, apples, bananas, the works. He watched in apprehension as the girls took a seat behind the surface. They continued to taunt him, make faces, be angry, but Joe was keeping his eyes on their little hands. If they were going to be doing something, he wanted to be able to figure out what it was before they started.  
The little girl in the middle reached for the egg carton. Almost robotically, she handed eggs to the other girls. Joe's eyes widened. He tried to duck to the side as the child hurled the egg, with scarily accurate precision, at his face.  
Unfortunately for him, the jacket did not allow for much mobility. Though he tried to avoid getting hit it wasn't long before raw egg was dripping from his hair and down his clothes. It was sticky and smelled putrid, like they were rotten. It was all he could do to not accidentally swallow some of it. They laughed and shrieked, baring their teeth and pointing at him. 

Yep. Definitely worse than creepy adults. 

Suddenly, all of the lights turned red. An alarm blared in Joe's ears, worsening his headache. It was like some sort of apocalyptic lighting. What was this alarm for? It concerned and excited him slightly. Was someone doing something to rise up against this group of girls? He hoped so. Thought, if it was one of his friends, he did not want them to get hurt  
The girls started screaming and waving their arms around. They looked like an angry pack of monkeys. They made their way closer to him, picking apart the cabbage and throwing it into the air like confetti. As the alarm continued to shriek, the kids kept pelting him with food. 

It wasn't frightening, exactly. It was discerning, and certainly tiring, not to mention just kinda creepy. He wasn't sure why exactly they were pelting him with food, but he didn't like it much. And he was becoming exhausted. All the squirming and yelling. The girls seemed to revel in it, but he didn't feel able to stop. He wanted out.  
It felt like hours, what with the red lights and loud noises, but the door opened. The alarms had stopped, but the lights stayed red. In the door way, their stood one of the vixens, leather-clad, heavy makeup. The girls squealed in delight and dropped their produce when they saw her. 

"Hi girls!" She said, her voice high, like she was talking to a small dog. "How are you fine young ladies doing?" She was completely ignoring Joe. 

"Good!" They cried in a disorganized chorus. 

"That's great!" She exclaimed. "Well girls, i've got good news! The bad man running about has been properly contained and the not-so-bad man..."

"Did it work?" One little girl gasped.

"It worked." She told them smiling. The girls cheered excitedly. 

The four girls left the room, leaving Joe behind. He gaped at the closed door a bit before lowering his head, breathing hard. What that was about, he had no idea, but he was too tired to try and figure it out. 

-

Andy snapped awake. Immediately he knew something was wrong. He couldn't hear anything. Something was covering his ears. When he tried to reach up to feel what it was, he realized he was in a damn straightjacket. His breathing shallowed. What was happening?  
Things started coming back to him. Being kidnapped and shoved into a van by a bunch of crazy girls and then brought to an abandoned building where...the details of that night were fuzzy. Why couldn't he remember?  
He glanced around frantically. Where was he now? Where were the others? His room was yellow. Everything he could see was stained with a sort of yellow tinge. There was a large yellow light hanging above his head that enhanced the yellow in the walls and carpet. Next to him, a table with an old record player. He couldn't see what was on it. Off to his side, in the corner of the room was a small, old television. One of the square ones, with the wooden-looking exterior and the large circular knobs on the side of the tiny screen. It was riddled with wires. Most noticeable for him was the digital camera pointed directly at his face.  
Andy could feel something tickling his shoulder. He strained his neck to glance at it. A wire stretching up his cheek and down his side. He must have been wearing headphones. Headphones plugged into something. But there were so many wires in everything in the room, he couldn't be certain to what.  
He strained against the jacket. This whole ordeal was giving him the creeps. Nothing about this was comforting. He could not stand the silence. He shouted. He screamed. It was a relief to hear something; even if that something was his own strained and terrified voice. And if he could hear himself through these soundproof headphones, someone else surely could.  
The light on the camera flicked on. He started to strain against the straightjacket, thrashing around under his screams. And all of it was being broadcast or projected onto the small tv in the corner. The word 'congratulations' in all caps flashed in white letters over the image.  
A woman walked into his room. She had on dark clothes like the rest of them, though she had a large, long furry jacket on, and her hair was a solid white color. Her makeup was dark and piercing. Her eyes looked like black holes that bore through him. There was a sort of haunting elegance about her.  
Slowly she made her way across the room towards him. She didn't bother saying anything. She knew he couldn't hear her. Slowly, her fingers dragged along his jaw bone, down to the base of his chin.  
He pulled away. 

"Tsk tsk." When her fingers as she shook her head. Not taking her hands off of him, she moved behind him to the record player and moved the tonearm so that the cartridge rested lightly on the platter. It was switched on. The platter began to spin.  
Immediately Andy wished for silence again. Music was streamed through the headphones, it was all he could hear, but it was so loud he couldn't understand any of it. It felt like his ears were on fire, his brain was melting. Tears were forming in his eyes. He'd heard loud music, hell, he was a drummer in a rock band, he often was loud music, but not like this. He could feel his ears starting to bleed. He squeezed his eyes shut. There was no way to block it out.  
Before he'd consciously thought to start screaming, he'd already begun. He hadn't noticed. Now that he thought about it, the only reason he knew he was was the raw, scratchy pain that was spreading throughout his throat and the extreme shortness of breath. He couldn't hear anything over the din.  
The woman had moved. She was kneeling on the floor, her face and hands pressed to the tv screen. She kept her eyes glued to the projection of Andy's agonized face. She began moving her hand, stroking the image in a rhythmic, circular motion.  
Andy was able to focus on little of this, as he had other issues, but this was freaking him out sufficiently. Part of his mind told him he should try to get her to stop. He bent over twisted to the side, did anything he could to get out of the frame of the camera, but he couldn't. Not all the way at least. Not enough to get her to cut it out. He stared at her, trying to figure out what the hell she was doing. As he stopped moving, his image stilled on the screen. He saw her smile and she licked the monitor.  
That was it. He flipped out. 

"Let me out!" He shouted. 

Or at least, that's what he hoped he shouted. He felt blood trickling down his cheek from underneath the headphones. It was all starting to make him nauseous. The woman did not react.  
Then the lights turned red. The once yellow room looked immensely different in the darker, harsher light. The woman looked up and smiled gleefully. She turned to Andy who started back at her. Walking over to him, she grabbed his headphones and pressed them harder against his ears. It didn't seem possible, but the sound grew more intense. The sound increased tenfold. His eyes felt like they were liquifying. 

"How's this?" She screeched.  
She'd taken off one of the sides, keeping the other pressed tightly and firmly against the side of his head. He face was right next to his, she was screaming at the top of her lungs into his exposed ear.  
"Are you having fun yet? I am?" She talked to him like one might talk to a pet. 

The headphone went back to being pressed over his ear. Her mouth kept moving but he definitely could not hear her. Even without the 'music' he was screaming louder than ever. 

He knew this because the sound suddenly stopped. Through the thickness of the headphones he could hear himself clearly. He didn't sound like himself. His voice was raspy and hoarse. Just under that, the faint sound of loud alarms blared from around the building. Something was wrong. For these girls at least. He must have looked slightly relieved, because the woman laughed. 

She picked up the disc and flipped it to the other side. 

"No!" He cried pathetically as a new, harsher song started to play. 

"Better?" She asked into his exposed ear again baring her teeth. 

He couldn't respond. She roughly shoved the headphones back on. She then made her was back over to caressing the tv monitor.  
In effort to avoid her licking his picture again, he tried a second time to get out of the camera frame. He ducked and shook violently on the chair. All too late, he realized what he was doing.  
He feel off of the chair, hitting the ground hard. Banging his head on the solid floor, he let out a gasp of pain. And not he couldn't get up. He couldn't turn around. He could barely move. 

But he'd knocked the headphones off.

There was a horrible ringing in his ears, but it was better than the alternative. He could still hear the alarm as background noise. He could still hear his own ever-unfading screams.  
He was in so much pain. Everything hurt. From physical pain to mental. His mind, his face, his throat, even his stomach. He must have eaten something funny. He moaned through the screams.  
The woman started towards him but the door was suddenly opened. The alarms had ceased. He wasn't sure when, but they were off by the time the woman had kicked in the gut to shut him up. Another girl was standing in the door. She had three small children around her who were staring at him eagerly. 

"They've got him." She said. He voice was like hard, sharp silk. "He won't be an issue."

"The experimental phase?" The woman asked anxiously. Her voice sounded deeper than it had been when she was screaming. 

"A complete success." The girl informed her, puffing out her chest proudly. "We're almost ready. We just need to load up the things in room 27C. Help?"

"I'd be honored." She walked out of the room with the girl and the children, leaving Andy alone, writing in pain, helpless alone on the cold floor. 

-

The room Pete was in was dark. He could tell that immediately. Through the splitting headache and the weird memory loss, he knew it was dark. He couldn't remember what he'd done last night. He knew that he'd been kidnapped and drugged. He also knew something else was in the room. What he did not know was what it was. He waited for his eyes to adjust. In his haze he was able to notice he was in a straightjacket. That, of course, freaked him out a bit. However, that was not the most disturbing thing he noticed.  
He was on a red carpet, like at an award show, complete with the velvet rope behind him. Beyond that, silhouetted by dim lightbulbs that swung loosely on the wires that held them to the ceiling, was a plethora of

mannequins. 

They had on horrible dresses and awful haircuts. Most of their faces were deformed. Some were missing arms or legs.  
He couldn't help it. He screamed. He wanted free. These things were terrifying and he had no idea where he was. So he yelled and shouted. He thrashed about, jerking his arms around, trying to loosen his bindings. There was no one else besides him and the mannequins as far as he knew. His throat was starting to feel raw and raspy, but he didn't stop. Someone had to help him. 

A girl walked in. She was like the others from the night before; black leather, long hair in a tight ponytail. She was extremely muscular. She had in her hand and old fashioned camera in one hand and a shiny silver hook in another. She gave him a cruel smile before holding it up to his eye and snapping a photo of him. The flash was blinding. He blinked rapidly, his heart beating fast. She kept snapping photos, the flash echoing through the mannequins. She started to get more creative. At one point she got right up next to him and took a picture of the two of them together.  
She continued snapping photos as the gears in his mind started turning. Why were they doing this. Obviously, they wanted the briefcase, but this specifically? They were trying to psych him out somehow. Why, he had absolutely no idea, but he decided he wasn't going to let them. He gave her a sideways look. Clearly she wasn't frightened. 

Slowly he adjusted his tactic. As she moved around the room he would turn, as much as he could in his straightjacket, to face her, and make a face. A smolder, sort of, like the kind of face he'd make at a cute camera girl at a red carpet event. Slowly she was catching on. It only took about three more shots before she put the device down. 

"What's your name?" He asked her, raising an eyebrow and smiling slightly. 

"Sierra." she replied, the camera falling from her fingers and hitting the ground. 

"You're incredibly beautiful, Sierra." Pete told her, keeping his voice low and husky, letting her name roll off his tongue, holding on the the Rs. He stared intensely at her.  
"Much better than that blonde bitch from two nights ago." At that, she seemed to swell a little. It was nearly imperceptible, but he could tell she was pleased. The blonde girl had to be her superior. 

He recognized her voice. She had been with them last night. She...she hadn't been in the elevator them, but she had been in the room. He had been yelling, but she had said something, he was sure of it...to Patrick maybe?

‘Patrick!’ He remembered suddenly. ‘He's alive! He is-’ no. 

No.  
As much as he wanted to, he couldn't think about Patrick right now. He had to focus on this. He had to get out. 

"Well, i'm glad someone noticed." She said, her red lips slightly parted, her dark eyes narrow. He had to admit, she was lovely.

"There's never been any any doubt in my mind." He promised. 

Pete kept his eyes on her, letting them wander, making it clear that he was examining every inch of her that he could see, that he wanted to see more. "If only there were some way i could prove it." He whispered. He paused, letting the weight of what he had said sink in. Her raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly, begging her with his eyes. It didn't take long for her to give in.  
Moving swift as a fox, she was on top of him, mouth pressed against him, fingers raking through his hair. Even through his clothing he could feel her exposed abs against his chest. He was giving her as much as he could; he didn't need to pretend to be holding back, he really was pinned down by the clothing they had put him in. Just as he had counted on her doing, she started to work on pulling the straightjacket off. It was easy to hide his relief in more intense kissing. She seemed to like it. The jacket fell around his shoulders and down most of his arm. 

"You're much better at this than the other one." She wetly against his lips. 

The other one. Patrick.  
Something inside him snapped. He couldn't stand the thought of this woman ravishing Patrick like this. He was still here. He hadn't wanted...It made his insides seethe. He hated her. It was just enough to push him over the edge, to make him not feel too bad for what happened next.  
She took a step back and jacket fell to the ground.  
He reached out his arms to grab her face and pull it back against his. 

Or, at least, that's what she thought he was going to do.  
He did reach out for her, but when he pulled her close to him, he brought up his knee hitting her in the stomach, and banging her head on his shoulder. She fell to the ground. Before she could react properly, Pete had her hook in his hand, raised it above his head, and smashed it roughly against her skull. The first blow knocked her unconscious. The second there was blood. It splattered onto his face and into his eyes. By the third, it was just excessive and, somewhere deep down inside himself, he knew it. Her blood staining his shirt and polling on the floor.  
She wasn't moving. 

Pete stared in horror at the body lying in a bloody mass in front of him. A gash went across her throat, oozing red. Her face was grey. His breathing shallowed. He'd done this. 

‘This is your shot.’ His mind prodded him. ‘Don't throw it away.’

Right.  
Right. He took his hand and wiped his face. He felt tears forming in his eyes. Giving her one last look, he spun on his heels, grabbed his actual jacket off of the floor and ran into the hall, hook still in his hand. It was empty and metallic, like an abandoned hospital. Every few feet there was a door. Pete tried as many of the doors as he could as fast as he could.  
Locked.  
All of them.  
He needed somewhere to hide. Finally, 

f i n a l l y

he found a door that was unlocked. Not only that, but it was open. If he had been thinking clearly, he might have found it odd, but he wasn't in the slightest. Pete burst through the door and slammed it behind him, hoping beyond hope they hadn't seen him. He was breathing hard. He had to get out of this building, away from these girls. He had to-  
His eyes examined the room he was in. He jerked back against the door and sunk to his knees. He shouldn't be here.  
Stacked up against the wall was a giant vat of kerosene, marked "flammable" in bright black block letters on a white label. It was surrounded by other containers of other various lighting fluids. Around all that, stacked in a huge pile that covered practically the entire room were

instruments. 

Instruments and records. 

Drums and guitars and old fashioned, large black records. He was as far away from the pile as he could get, but he was familiar enough with the name to recognize it plastered in the center of the disc. He even recognized some of the old album covers. It seemed to scream at him from all around the room. "Fall Out Boy."  
His heart was beating out of his chest. His eyes flicked back to the vat of kerosene.  
‘Nope.’ He was not about to stay there. This place freaked him out. He scrambled for the doorknob and pushed his way back into the hall.  
Suddenly, all of the lights flashed red. An alarm blared in his ears. They must have found Sierra. Pete dashed down the hall as fast as he possibly could. There had to be a way out somewhere, a stairway, an elevator, a door, anything. He ran. It was only a matter of time before-  
From the inside the doors he was speeding past, two girls emerged, running full-speed at him. He ran faster. He didn't think it was possible in those heels, but they were gaining on him easily. 

Then he slipped. 

Wether it was water on the floor, or no traction with his shoes, or merely that he had just lost his balance, he slipped and fell. In vain, he tried to get to his feet, to crawl away, but they were right behind him. They clawed at his feet and ankles, trying to grab him. To his amazement, he was able to lash out his leg, kicking both girls in the face. They both backed off just long enough for him to get to his feet and dash away. He turned a couple of corners and ran around until he was certain he'd lost them. There was only one issue. He was lost as well. Not that he had known where he was to begin with, but now he couldn't be sure if he was running away from the mannequin room or towards it. He chose a random unlocked door and went in it. It was better than standing out in the open.  
Inside there was a man. He didn't know him, though he looked a bit familiar. He had dark skin and a bald head. He was also in a straightjacket. He was alone in an empty room, thrashing around like Pete had been, and screaming. Oh, his screams were horrible. Pete looked regretfully back at the door. Those girls could show up at any moment. No. He couldn't let himself leave this guy to rot in here. He ran over to him. 

"Hey, hey, shh, calm down." The guy flipped out when Pete touched his shoulder, but stopped thrashing when he saw him. He stared at him with wide eyes. "I'm Pete. I'm going to help."

"Pete." The guy repeated. His voice was low and raw, raw like Pete's. "You're one of the new guys." He said slowly, with some sort of resentment Pete didn't understand. 

"Yeah i guess." He dismissed. "What's your name?"

The guy hesitated. "Sean." He finally said. 

"Sean." It clicked. "The rapper? Big Sean?"

"In the flesh."

Were these girls just kidnapping musicians? He was starting to get more and more confused. 

"Well, Sean, i'm going to get you out." He promised, holding up his hook. "Is there any one else here?"

He hesitated again. "Not anymore." He went with. 

Pete's heart stopped. "Did they kill him?" He asked, his voice dead. 

Sean nodded slowly. 

"What did he do?"

"I guess i was skinnier than he was." Sean answered, tilting his head slightly. 

Pete's blood ran cold. His breathing shallowed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, dumbass." Sean said, his voice the same tone. Pete's expression didn't change. "Fine. Do you need me to fucking spell it out for you? You were kidnapped by a bunch of psycho bitches. They gave you food. Did you think it was a fucking rotisserie chicken?"

The dinner. The meat. He hadn't known what it was. 

"Oh god." He doubled over, feeling like he was going to puke. He clenched at the wall for support. They had... "Bro, i swear, we had no idea. We were stoned as hell. They gave us...we didn't...we would never-" he stammered. He couldn't believe this.  
Sean didn't say anything. He just stared at Pete as he freaked out. Finally:

"Are you going to help me or not?" 

Pete looked at him. Right. He came up behind him and hacked away at the back of the jacket with the hook. It split down the middle. Sean started working on taking it off and undoing the bindings he had on his feet. 

"I have to go." Pete said. He thought of Patrick and the other boys. He had to find them, to get out. He wasn't going to leave them behind. 

"Then go." Sean told him. "And thank you."

Pete nodded and ran back out. The lights and alarms were really starting to drive him crazy. Not to mention they were nerve racking as hell. Hopefully Sean would get out alright. As he turned the corner, he almost ran into a pair of girls. 

"Shit!" He exclaimed as he tried to skid to a stop. There was almost zero traction on his shoes, especially on these glossy hospital floors. He ducked under her outstretched arm and managed to turn and run the opposite direction. They were right behind him. Their heels sounded like anvils on this tile. He ducked around a corner and into a doorway, breathing hard, standing as still as he could. 

"There's no use hiding, Peter." He heard one of them call. "You're outnumbered. We'll find you. What do you think will happen to your friends then?"

Pete pursed his lips and tried not to cry. This was all too much. He couldn't deal with it. So much had happened in the past hour... He heard the click of their shoes getting closer. Letting out a thin breath of air, he started running again.  
When he slipped this time, he was ready.  
When he turned, his shoe twisted and caught on the corner. Instead of falling on his face and trying to crawl, he managed to fall sort of on his side, push of the wall, and slide down the hall, with the help of the soft flannel he had around his waist. He slid past a large pair of double doors. It looked like they must be to the church chapel. His heart sped up. He had to be close to the exit. 

But something seemed wrong. In the base of his head he could feel it. A soft, yet high-pitched noise, like some sort of frequency. It was barely there, but it was insistent. He hadn't felt it before he got here. He looked around. No girls. Something was pushing him to check it out. Slowly, he pushed open the doors. Inside, at where the alter probably would be, was

Patrick. 

He wasn't wearing a straightjacket like Pete had been, but his legs and arms were bound with leather straps, similar to Sean's. Wires were stuck to his head like he was some sort of mental patient. Around him were all sorts of devices and wires. There were machines with spinning knobs and what looked like an old radio and a monitor showing the frequency this contraption was emanating. The monitor was labeled ‘Direct Current’ in all caps. The little red hand wasn't able to go over far enough. It kept hitting the end of the meter and bouncing back. What were they doing to him?!  
Pete ran across the chapel towards him. Something...something was very wrong. He was standing right in front of Patrick, but it was as if he couldn't see him. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were darting around the room.  
His eyes...

They were yellow. 

Not like he was tired or sick. The pupils themselves, rather than their normal clear blue, they were a deep, sickening golden-yellow. They shone even through the harsh red lights that continued to flash. Pete's already unsteady breathing shallowed even more. He had to help him.  
However, Patrick, or whatever this was, seemed to have other ideas. Pete set the hook down on the arm of the chair, went around behind him and started to pull the wires off his head. Immediately, Patrick started thrashing in the chair, trying to pull himself away from him. His motion was spontaneous and sporadic. 

"Patrick." Pete said in cautious disbelief. "Patrick, calm down. It's just me."

Patrick growled -actually growled- at him. It was a low, vibrating sound that seemed to reverberate around the room. Pete took a step back. 

"Patrick-"

He was cut off by a guttural roar. It echoed even over the alarm. Patrick's jaw clenched and his eyes looked insane. Pete's resolve strengthened. He needed to get those things off, get him out. He went back to work, detaching him from the machines. All through it, Patrick thrashed and roared, and honestly was just making things very difficult.  
Even so, it wasn't long before Pete was done. The wires fell to the ground. He took a step back and stared at Patrick. A deeply rooted pain flowered in his chest. He couldn't bare to see him like this. He wanted to help him, but he didn't have the slightest idea how. Patrick freaked out every time he touched him. He didn't even know what was wrong with him, what they did to him. He wasn't sure wether or not he should even untie him. The way he was acting, Pete wasn't sure he wouldn't attack him.  
Suddenly the door burst open. Two girls ran into the room. 

"There!" The blonde shouted, pointing at him.

Before the word had left her mouth, before Pete had time to react at all, the other girl was aiming some sort of blowgun at him. He just had time to think ‘who the hell uses a blowgun anymore?’ before something pointy lodged in his neck. His hand flew to it, and he pulled out a large feathered dart, but it was too late. Sinking to his knees, he heard a soft sigh of relief before the high pitch frequency ringing in his ears suddenly stopped and everything went dark. 

-

The boys had their hands tied with think, scratchy rope, and grimy bags over their heads. They were being ushered towards a large black van, but none of them could see that. They couldn't see anything. Girls held onto their shoulders or wrists or wherever they felt like holding them. They stumbled over each other and bumps in the ground. 

"Where are you taking us?" Joe asked. His voice was hoarse and raw. It sounded like it was hard for him to talk. 

"That's none of your concern." A girl's voice replied. "Keep moving."

"Please." Andy begged. "Why are you doing this?"

"Tell your friend that killing people is wrong." Another girl said, roughly shoving Pete on the shoulder. He stumbled and almost fell. There was a smattering of laughter. 

A third girl caught him and pulled him up to her face. "What Peter?" She asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "No smart comments?" 

Pete tried to control his staggered breathing. Whatever tranquilizer they had shot him with left his neck sore and his throat constantly felt like it was closing up. 

"Where's Patrick?" He demanded, trying his hardest not to sound breathy and tired. 

More laughter. 

"Right behind you, dumbass." Someone said. You could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "Now start walking. We've got places to be." 

He was pushed again, softer this time, and he continued walking in the direction they were leading them.  
But his mind was racing. He did not know wether he was relieved or terrified. On one hand, Patrick was with them, and they were all in the same place, not having experiments done on them. On the other, which Patrick was he? He didn't know what these girls were planning, but it was obviously nothing good. If they were going to be locked somewhere with that thing...  
Pete hadn't forgot the frightful, intense look in it's yellow eyes. He didn't want to be anywhere near that thing again, much less if it wasn't tied down. 

Patrick was being uncharacteristically quiet. It just so happened that at that moment in time he was completely himself. His head was pounding and his heart still felt like it would beat right out of his chest. Even he wasn't sure what had happened in that chapel. But he knew it was something bad, and he didn't particularly want to talk or think about it. 

They reached the van. The back doors were just sitting wide open. One by one, each of the boys was roughly shoved into it. As they shuffled off of each other, the doors were slammed closed and audibly bolted. One girl hit the window of the van, and it slowly started to pull away from the hospital. 

-

After watching the whole affair from the bushes, Sean ducked away. He had an idea of where this van might be going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took me so long to put out. What with rehearsal for my show and all, my schedule's been jacked. I might be able to post more regularly and quickly from now on.


	4. My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark (Light 'Em Up)

> **Burn everything you love, then burn the ashes.**

There was silence for a good long while. The only sound any of them could hear was the van's engine and the tires racing against the asphalt. The roads were curvy and the driver seemed to hit every pothole. All of the boys were sitting with their elbows resting on their knees, their backs against the wall of the car, their heads slightly bowed. The hard floor of the van was unbelievably uncomfortable. They had no idea if they were the only ones back there. All of them were bursting with questions, but they were too afraid to ask. If there was a girl back there, none of them seemed to keen on the whole talking thing. So they remained silent, only even really moving when the van moved for them.  
The air smelled stiff and sharp, like fire. Pete had a sinking suspicion about that room he had ended up in earlier. If they were stuck in the back of a van with a giant vat of kerosene... nothing about that boded well for them. Were they going to kill them? Then again, if they didn't want them alive, why had they done whatever they had done to Patrick?

Patrick. 

Andy and Joe had both heard Pete ask about him, heard the fear in his voice, but for the most part, they assumed that it was that Patrick hadn't been with them before that barely-remembered meal they'd had, and he hadn't said anything on the way to this incredibly cramped van. Sure, a van might seem spacious, but when you have four men in the back, even if one of them is only 5'4", it can feel quite small. Especially when the back also stored a bunch of equipment for something or other. Their knees kept banging together and when they would go around tight corners they would practically fall on top of one another.   
But it was Pete's reaction afterwards that had them freaked out. When the girl had told him that Patrick was there, they had both expected some sort of sigh of relief, something. But Pete had been silent, barely breathing, almost rigid. Joe could have sworn he had felt him shiver against him. What could have happened in there to make him act like that? Was Patrick okay? Had Pete really killed someone? There were too many questions, and they were not even sure they wanted answers. 

Pete had questions too, and he knew, on the other hand, that he wanted to know their answers. This whole thing seemed too surreal, like he was reading a sci-fi novel instead of living his life. That thing in the chapel, it was not Patrick. That didn't seem possible, but here they were. What were those girls going for? How far would this demon-thing be willing to go? The blonde girl had called it the "experimental phase". Is that all Patrick was to them, an experiment? And how many times had they failed? Using frequencies that high could have caused blood vessels to burst or brain cells to melt. It didn't seem like they had ever had a successful 'trial' before. Had all their earlier demonic petri dishes died of horrible, painful brain-injuries, or had they just failed the experiment and been killed later? What made Patrick different in this case? Why had it worked for him and not anyone else? Not that Patrick wasn't special, of course, but what qualities made him susceptible to this? If he knew, maybe he could work on finding a way to reverse it.   
But was the man next to him even really his friend? Was it really Patrick? Or was it some sort of vixen lapdog who would attack them the moment it knew it wasn't alone?

Patrick, as it happened, was perfectly himself at the moment and he had only one question;   
What had happened to him?  
He thought hard and tried to run through the day. 

 

He had woke up to a strange whirring sound accompanied by a dull high-pitched tone. For the third time in two days, he was tied to a chair. This time two leather straps were plastered against his chest, making it even harder for him to move. There were wires taped to his forehead. His stomach gurgled unpleasantly. He was still covered in stinging cuts and bruises, but now on top of that, he had the absolute worst hangover. The lights were he was were not particularly bright, but they bore in through his eyes and felt like they were melting his retinas. Nothing felt better. In fact, literally everything felt worse. He was covered in what would be scars, his head ached, his stomach was killing him, and he knew his friends were caught.   
He'd gotten them into this. It was his fault.   
The worst thing that day had not been the torture or the molesting or even losing his hand. It was seeing his friends brought into that room, tied up and crying out for help, and being absolutely useless.   
He remembered very little about that evening. There were certain things at the beginning, like certain specific little details about the room, the food on the table, the heat. He remembered the boys being practically carried in. The IV. He remembered the brunette shoving it into his skin. Then...nothing. Just fuzzy images. 

He seemed to be in some sort of chapel, like that of a hospital. He was surrounded by a semicircle of old radio and other sound-emitting equipment. That was probably where that annoying frequency noise was coming from. He had strained against the bindings, though it was mostly out of principle. 

He knew he wasn't getting out. 

The double doors at the end of the pews flew open. Through them walked two girls, hand in hand, confidently striding towards him. He stared at them anxiously. What more could they possibly want from him? He had not seen either of these two before, they hadn't been at the dinner or that cellar. They were probably eager to get in on a bit of the action.   
One girl went around behind him and started unnecessarily tightening the straps. They were definitely already tight enough. He winced as his chest compressed, feeling like it was closing in on itself. As he focused on her 'securing' him, the other girl grabbed his chin, and turned him to face her. Faces barely inches apart, noses practically touching. Patrick felt his breathing shorten. He knew how this usually ended. He didn't feel safe this close to one of them. 

"How are you feeling, Patrick?" She asked. Her voice was higher than he expected, her breath hot against his cheeks.   
He didn't say anything.   
"I don't suppose you've got a nasty hangover, do you?" She asked, chuckling slightly. "I hear you were quite the party animal."

That was not something he wanted to hear. He squirmed uncomfortably. 

Laughing, the vixen shook the singer's face like he was an affectionate puppy, before letting go. "Let's get this started." The other girl said. "Courtney'd like it if we could get on to survive."

Survive?!

She bent over and began fiddling with one of the knobs on a machine to his right. It was barely perceptible, but Patrick could swear the ringing had gotten slightly louder. The vixen not messing with the knobs walked over to her friend. She peered at what she was doing. 

"Mm. Too low." She shook her head. "Bring it up a bit."

"I know how to do this, Alex." She snapped. "We need to take our time. The last one's head practically exploded."

Exploded?!

"Well, we wouldn't want that would we?" Alex replied, standing back up and giving Patrick's face another squeeze. "Not this cutie. I can see why Sierra wanted to hit this so bad." She continued, looking him up and down. 

He gave her the best look of disgust he could manage with his face all squished. She let go of him. 

"Isn't there any way," she sighed exasperatedly, "to make it gradually increase without you having to-"

"I'm working on it!" She snapped again. 

Suddenly the ringing got dramatically louder. Patrick let out a gasp of pain and surprise. It was a constant high pitched beep, that was slowly getting louder. It was wedging it's way through his mind making it harder and harder for him to hear anything else. 

"It's working!" Alex exclaimed gleefully. 

"This is the easy part." Her friend warned. "We'll leave him on increasing intervals for a few more minutes, and if he's still alive when we return, then we can think about rejoicing."

Still alive?!

The beep got louder. Patrick groaned and thrashed against the leather. 

"No." The vixen stopped his chair from tipping over. She pushed him back against the chair and tightened the straps again. "None of that. Now if you're not here when we return, if this chair has moved at all, god help them, it will be hell for your friends." 

The two of them walked out of the side door of the chapel and disappeared down the hall.   
For Patrick, this was no relief. Ringing kept increasing, it was the only thing on his mind, and every time he started to bare it, it somehow got louder. He let out a guttural scream. It hurt. It hurt so bad. He felt blood start to trickle out of his ears and eyes. His cries echoed around the chapel walls. He tried not to strain against the bindings, but he didn't feel in control. The pain was intolerable. He lost track of time. It really did feel like his brain was going to explode. 

The lights suddenly flashed red. An alarm was resounding through the walls, but it sounded distant and disconnected. The singer didn't pay it any mind.   
Gradually, the sound seemed to wane off. Not completely, by any means, but it lessened. This frightened Patrick considerably. The frequency hadn't decreased, as he could tell from the monitor. In fact, it seemed to still be increasing. So why wasn't he feeling it?   
The two girls returned. They seemed stressed. That changed when they saw him. 

"Oh my god." Alex muttered. She sounded far away. "It's working."

They rushed up to him. He didn't move. Everything felt distant and unrelated to him. 

"We need to hurry, keep him stabilized. We don't know what happens next."

The vixens went behind him and started messing with the knobs again. Then there was rage. White hot irrational anger coursing through his veins. There was nothing else.  
Just rage. 

He didn't remember anything else. That was just where it stopped. His next memory was having a bag shoved over his head and being walked outside. 

 

So what had happened? Based on how Pete was acting, it wasn't good. But he didn't say anything. He just continued to run over that story in his mind, trying to spark anything that might bring any memories back.   
Finally, Pete couldn't stand the silence. 

"Guys? You all okay?" He winced and froze, waiting to see if some vixen were going to lash out at him. He was surprised when no one did. Maybe they really were alone.   
"Guys?" He asked again, begging someone to answer him. 

"Yeah, i'm okay." Joe spoke up finally, voice raspy. 

"Me too." Andy agreed, his voice worse than Joe's. "My ears are still burning, but other than that..."

"I mean we're still alive." Joe said. "That has to count for something."

"What about you?" Andy asked Pete.

What about him? He wasn't sure at all how he felt. Confused, angry, scared, to name a few. But saying those things wasn't exactly helpful or reassuring to anyone. 

"I'm fine."

"Fine." Joe repeated. "Pete, you killed someone."

"I... I did." 

He'd almost forgotten, which made him feel awful. But honestly that was the only reason he felt bad about it. There was no guilt lying heavy on his conscience, or anything like that. That thought made him feel even worse. Maybe he really was a terrible person. 

"And?" Joe prompted. 

"And nothing." Pete said quickly. "There's nothing to add." 

"Nothing?"

"Yes. It happened. It's done."

There was a brief silence. 

"Did you know her name?" Patrick asked softly, out of the blue.

"Patrick." 

Pete hadn't expected him to say anything. It was such a relief to hear his voice again, though he had never heard the singer sound so awful. He voice was scratchy and weak, like every movement hurt. Pete's heart sank. But at least he sounded like he was himself again, not that...thing.   
"What happened back there?"

"Her name, Pete." Patrick insisted. "Please tell me you knew it." 

"Sierra." Pete told him after a moment of thought. 

No one said anything for a minute. 

"Sierra." Patrick repeated. He briefly ran over everything that had happened over the past...few days? He wasn't sure exactly how long they'd been holed up in that hospital. It had definitely been more than a day, but how much more, he was not sure.   
"I knew her."

"I know." Pete said, his voice full of sympathy. "She mentioned."

Patrick didn't say anything. 

"Patrick, what happened in there?" Pete asked again. 

"I don't know, Pete." He snapped at him. "I-" his voice broke off. "I don't remember any of it." 

"Any of it?" Pete repeated in disbelief. "You don't remember seeing me?"

"Wait, you saw him?" Joe interjected. "Did you get out?"

"Briefly, yes." Pete nodded. "But Patrick-"

"How did you manage that?" Joe interrupted. 

"I did what i had to."

"Is that why you killed her?" Andy asked. 

"More or less yeah." Pete bit his lip. "Patrick, i-"

"But you were tied up right?" Joe persisted. "Did she untie you or something? How did-"

"I did what i had to do, okay?!" Pete said again, getting irritated. He left that for them to figure out. "Patrick, talk to me. You really don't remember-."

"No." Patrick cut him off. "I was in the chapel. There was a loud ringing. Two girls were there. I was so... angry. I've never felt rage like that in my life. Where it came from i don't know, but honestly, that's it. That is all i remember."

"What happened, Pete?" Andy asked. 

"Yes. Please tell us." Patrick said. 

Pete took a few slow breaths. How was he supposed to say this?

"I'm not really sure. I was running through the halls, when i found the chapel. I heard a weird ringing and it seemed unusual so i checked it out. That was where you were, Patrick. You were-"

"Tied to a chair again?" Patrick supplied. 

"Yeah. But when i got close to you, it was like you couldn't see me. You didn't acknowledge me at all until i tried to take off the wires taped to your head. then you-..."

"I what?" Patrick asked anxiously. "What did i do?"

"You started growling."

"Growling? Like a dog?"

"Maybe a really big, scary dog."

"I scared you?" He asked, his voice small. 

"Yeah." Pete admitted regrettably. "But it wasn't you." He added quickly. 

"Why do you think that?" Patrick asked roughly. "Cause I'm not big on growling? I get that you're trying to make me feel better or some shit like that but I-"

"Patrick." Pete interrupted him. "Your eyes. They were yellow."

Patrick fell silent. 

"Yellow?" Joe repeated. "Like-"

"Like his pupils were glowing bright yellow." Pete explained briefly. 

"What the fuck?"

"I know what i saw." Pete insisted. "It sounds insane i know. But they were, and it wasn't Patrick." 

"So what was it?" Joe pushed. 

"I don't know." Pete sighed. "But it was insane. I honestly wasn't sure it wouldn't attack me if i tried to let Patrick out."

"But what about-"

"Guys." Andy cut them off. "I don't think you're helping."

Patrick hadn't moved. He hadn't spoken. If the boys had been able to see him they might have noticed his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyes squeezed closed. Still, they realized something was wrong. 

"Patrick?" Pete asked softly. 

"I could have hurt you." He murmured. 

"No." Pete promised him. "No, you were tied up. There's no way you could have-"

Joe elbowed him to stop talking. "Not what he meant."

"Oh." Pete realized. He thought for a moment. "Patrick we don't know for sure-"

"It doesn't matter if we know for sure!" Patrick yelled angrily. "You believed it could happen! Those vixens did something to me that changed me enough to make you think i would-" he broke off in a dry sob. "I would never. I don't want to hurt any of you." None of them said anything as he tried to choke back tears. "What the hell did they do to me?" He managed in a small voice. 

"Patrick, you have nothing to feel sorry for." Pete insisted. "It wasn't you-"

"Wasn't it?" He sounded broken. In every sense of the word. "It certainly looked like me."

"Patrick-" Pete started. 

Suddenly the car stopped. The boys hadn't realized how bumpy the terrain had become. They must have driven off the road. No one moved. They fell silent. They heard the front doors open. No footsteps were heard, so they figured they had parked in the grass. The back doors open. Outside, cool breezes blessed their skin. 

"If any one of you moves," the vixen warned. "I will take a hand as a souvenir. You can ask Patrick what the feels like."

Andy felt Patrick shrink against the wall of the van. He started to say something to him but

"Andrew." The girl's voice was dangerously low. "I said don't move."

He froze. The four of them felt the weight of the van shift as the girl climbed in. She walked, unafraid, between them and started grabbing things from beyond where they were sitting and passing them to someone else outside the van. There were things of all shapes and sizes. Based on the shifting center of balance and the grunts from her friend, some of the things were very heavy, but she did not seem to have any trouble. Eventually, she finished. The car seemed to sit higher in the grass. 

"Don't go anywhere." She smirked as she hopped out. The doors slammed behind her. 

"What was that about?" Joe asked after a moment. 

"I think i might have an idea." Pete said quietly. He told them about the room he got into back at the hotel. The kerosene and instruments and records.  
"I think they're going to burn them. Why they brought us, i don't know. But i imagine we will soon enough."

They fell silent. 

"What did she mean when she said 'you can ask Patrick'?" Andy asked, his soft voice full of concern. 

"It doesn't matter." Patrick said quickly. He hadn't thought about his hand in days. It felt weird, now that he was thinking about it. It didn't feel like it did back at that meal. It was like something was stuck to it. He wiggled his wrist, but it didn't come off.   
"Probably nothing."

Pete stared at where is voice came from, mouth hanging open. "Are you kidding? Patrick, that's not even remotely t-" He tried to say. 

"It doesn't matter!" Patrick insisted. "We've all been tortured by these people in some way or another. I'm fine."

"Don't try and pretend like any of us have had it worse than you." Pete said angrily. "All of us still have-"

"Stop." Patrick cut him off. "Please. Just stop." He let out a shaky breath. "I don't want to know how you know. And i definitely don't want to hear you say it out loud. Please."

The back of the van fell silent again. No one really knew what to say. 

"Do...do any of you remember anything about that dinner we had?" Joe asked, attempting to change the subject. 

"No."

"Not really."

Pete didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what to say. All knowing would provide them with was more suffering. Then again, keeping them in the dark was not something he wanted to do, either. Apparently, he was hesitating too long. 

"Pete?" Joe asked. "You okay?"

"No." He shook his head. "No i'm not. Guys, when i was out, i found a guy who had been there before us. I helped him escape. He..."   
Shit, was he actually going to say it out loud?   
"He told me there was another guy there. The vixens killed him. Then they..." His voice broke off.   
He couldn't do it. 

"They what, Pete?" Andy prodded gently. 

He had to tell them. Right? 

"What did they do?"

He took a deep breath. "Theyservedhimtousfordinner." He explained as fast as he possibly could. 

"What?"

"Please don't make me say it again." He begged. 

"Oh god." Patrick whispered. He'd understood. "You mean-"

"Yes."

"We-"

"Yes."

"Oh my god." Patrick said again. He leaned his head back against the wall of the car. "Fuck."

"Shit." Joe realized what he'd said. 

No one had anything else to say. The car was silent. All they could hear was their own staggered breathing and the crackling of a bonfire just outside. 

-

It was already foggy out. About eleven o'clock. It was the perfect night. A great location, too. Courtney had chosen well. No one would notice this happening.  
Normally, she didn't trust men to do her dirty work. Then again, she'd sent two of her goons along with him. Still, they were in the car. Sure, they'd get there soon enough, but he got to start. Trudging through the fog, through the mucky grass, he already had a jug of kerosene in his hand. They had more, but this was enough to get started. 

He found the site. It didn't look like much. A moderate-sized mound of sticks and twigs stuffed together in a sort of cone shape. He untwisted the cap of the jug and tossed it in the grass. Kerosene pored onto the pile and trickled down into the center through all the little cracks and crevices. He took a step back, letting a line of the fuel follow him. 

Then, carefully, he lit a match. 

It fell almost in slow motion. The burning match seemed to to summersaults through the cool night air. Then it hit the oil.   
The reaction was instant. The kerosene ignited in a brilliant burst of yellow and blue flame. It snaked it's way through the grass until it reached the mound. Then it seemed to explode. The wood erupted into an enormous bonfire of flames. It was beautiful. His sunglasses suddenly felt like a good idea. He could feel the heat radiating from it, though he was standing far off. This was what he lived for. The flames whipped and crackled in the wind.   
He whooped and punched the air. 

Then, he heard the doors of the van open. They saw the fire. They knew it was time. Slowly, the girls started un packing the items. The man stayed still, standing, staring at the flames.   
They started with little things; drumsticks, guitar picks. They burned and sizzled satisfyingly in the flames. Then came a small drum. One of the girls had a electric guitar. With a loud yell, she smashed it against the ground. It splintered with a horrifying twang before it was engulfed in flames. 

The fire was building up. Burning ashes jumped out of the flames and climbed into the sky. It was lovely. 

Then came some more burnable materials. Posters, records. The name "Fall Out Boy" fell into the heat and melted into nothing.   
After that, it was like it was raining instruments. A snare drum was first, fueling the heat of the fire. Then came cable boxes, more drums, a microphone, old albums. 

He walked away. There was something he needed to get. Not that their anti-music protest or whatever wasn't riveting as hell, but it needed something more.   
He came back brandishing a giant flame thrower.   
The girls stepped back, giving him room. He took a stance and pulled back the lever. 

A stream of white hot flames burst from the nozzle, engulfing the entire bonfire. The metal of the instruments turned a molten red color. Many albums shriveled immediately. Some just exploded into ashes. It was so satisfying. He didn't let the lever go. The fire was constant, building up the flames. The girls cheered. He could feel the front of his shirt singeing. The flames curled around the logs, dancing over the burning memorabilia. 

Behind him, he could hear the girls sauntering back to the car. Regretfully, he set the flame thrower down and followed them across the grass. 

They pulled the doors open. Inside, for men with wrists bound and heads covered, sat cramped next to each other. The girls looked at him expectantly. Pile of wood and instruments, a large van; what's the difference?

He lit a match.


	5. The Mighty Fall

> **I'm singing, woah, how the mighty fall.** ****

At first, it was just a faint burning smell.

Then the doors were slammed shut again, and it grew exponentially. 

The smell richened. It started to get extremely hot. Then came to smoke.  
The van became filled with a chorus of coughs and wheezes, as the four boys struggled to catch a breath. Even through the bags, the could see the red-orange of the flames dancing around them. They were going to die if they didn't do something. 

Pete was the first to act. Somehow, through the violent hacking coughs, he heard something. At one point, Patrick had ended up the floor, probably in efforts to get under the rising smoke. There was a small clang as he hit the ground. Pete had recognized it immediately. He'd heard it the times he had fallen back at the hospital.  
It was the sound of that metal hook banging on something.  
He started crawling his way towards the sound, hoping he would be able to find it. Sweat poured off of him, almost immediately vaporized in the heat. He panted and coughed. He felt like he was dying, and, when he thought about it, he probably was. 

His hand hit something. He closed his fingers around it. It was the hook. With a hurried sigh of relief, Pete worked on ripping of the rope on his wrists. Sawing it against the hook, he could feel it slowly starting to give. He did not have time for this. With a grunt, Pete yanked the rope against the sharp edge of the hook. He heard a small yelp of pain from Patrick, but he didn't waste time trying to see if he was okay. He knew he wasn't. Step one was getting them all free and out of this van. He ripped off the bag from his head and immediately got to work trying to find the doors. Everything was a blinding red-orange color. The bag was off his head, but he still couldn't see. He crawled around on all fours until he ran into them. He grimaced in pain, but he was glad he found them. He got up and slammed into them with his shoulder, and for a horrifying moment, nothing happened. 

Panicked, he rammed into it again, harder. 

A jolt of pain shot through his arm, but the doors swung open. A large puff of smoke escaped into the park. The force of his contact with the doors sent Pete tumbling into the grass, coughing violently. He did not want to go anywhere near the burning van, but he couldn't just leave his friends in there to die. 

With a deep breath, the bassist rushed back towards the fire. He reached into the van. His hands quickly found someone. Pete wrapped his arms around that someone, picking them up and out of the car. Then his hand found the hand of another band member, who's hand he grabbed and led outside. The last one was closely behind him, hands desperately clinging to the man in front of him. Their clothes were smoldering, and they were having to cough smoke out of their lungs, but they were alive. 

When all three were out in the grass, Pete got to work untying their hands. It was a complicated knot and took a moment to undo, but he was ultimately able to get. He got to Andy's and they were much easier now that he had already done it once.  
Then he got to Patrick. He didn't have to do more than look at his hands to feel sick. The hook hadn't just been conveniently placed in the van. It was attached to the place where Patrick's hand used to be. Pete swallowed audibly and started untying his friend. He couldn't imagine that there was any good reason for that. Good for them anyway. If that...thing took over again...  
No. He wasn't going to think about that right now.  
Now that all of them were out of the van and had their hands free, Pete allowed himself a moment to try and clear his own lungs. He coughed twice before sinking to his knees. He found it kind of strange that the two girls who had been there were no where to be seen. Something was off, but he wasn't focusing on that. Everything hurt. His throat and lungs burned. 

"Pete." He heard Patrick croak. The singer's voice was even worse than it had been before. "The fire. It'll spread if we leave it."

"Oh shit." Pete realized. He was right. They couldn't just leave a burning truck in the middle of a park. With difficulty, he got up and made his way to the front of the van. As much as they were using fire recklessly, the girls had to have some way to control it. He was rewarded with a full-sized fire extinguisher stuffed under the front seat. Finally, something went right  
He took the extinguisher and brought it around back. Behind him, his friends were still catching their breath as he sprayed down the van. Andy was the only one who had managed to fully take the bag off of his head. The fire went out, but the van continued smoking. With a grunt, Pete tossed the extinguisher to the side and put his hands on his knees. 

A sound caught his ears. It was a distant whirring, but it was rapidly getting louder. He looked up. 

"What the-?"

Joe and Patrick took the bags of their head and the three of them got to their feet. They looked where he was looking, in mild confusion and panic. The whirring had stopped. It had brought seven children on bikes. 

‘What is happening?’ Pete wondered. ‘They're just kids.’  
Had they come across some sort of biking group or something? Nothing to worry about, right? But Patrick's expression was saying something completely different.  
Patrick was staring, eyes wide, at the kid in the center. The kid had black 'war paint' on his cheeks and nose. His vest and white t-shirt were dirty, as were his jeans. He had a beanie over his long, dark, curly hair. Now that Pete thought about it, he thought the kid looked familiar. 

Each kid had something in their hand. There were kids with bats, batons, a spiked club, a switch blade, even one with a length of chain. The kid in the middle had a large, hand-held stereo, which looked odd and out of place. They stared at the Defenders intimidatingly.  
Normally, they would not have been all that spooked by a couple of kids, but the past week had not been all that normal. And these kids looked like they were ready to bash their brains in. Patrick staggered back a few steps, running his hands through his already messed up hair. Joe put his hands on his hips and sighed. Frankly, he was tired of small children. This was all getting very much out of hand.  
They had all four reached the same conclusion:  
these kids were working with Courtney and her army of vixens. 

For a moment, neither of the two groups moved. They just stared at each other, silent. 

Then, suddenly, and all at once, the kids charged at them. The men took off, scattering into the woods surrounding them, not thinking about finding one another, each followed closely by two armed children, except Patrick, who only had the stereo kid trailing him. 

Pete veered to the right, tailed by two long blond-haired boys, one of whom had what almost looked like a yellow cast on his arm. He didn't really have a chance to take a good look at it. They must have been twins. The two boys sported something that resembled a bike handle and small length on chain, kind of like nunchucks. They had on jean jackets and black warpaint.  
Pete was running as fast as he could, but so were the boys, and they, unlike him, seemed to have no shortage of energy. He zigzagged through the trees, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he could lose them in the night and foliage, but with every turn he made, the brothers just seemed to get closer. It wasn't long before they were right on his heels. If Pete so much as stumbled, they would all plow right into each other. 

A tree had fallen on it's side. It was blocking the path Pete was taking. It was large and looked fresh, like it had been cut down. Without thinking too much, he jumped, knowing he would psych himself out if he thought to much. His knees touched his chest as he took to the air. He landed a bit unevenly on the ground, but not enough to fall.  
The kid with the yellow cast and the bicycle handles leapt over the trunk like he was a gazelle. He practically flew over that thing, while his brother scrambled over it in a manner similar to Pete's. Upon his descent, the boy raised his weapon and rammed it against the base on Pete's neck. Simultaneously, his brother swung his nunchucks into the back of Pete's knee. 

He fell like a stone, skidding against the dirt, badly scraping his palms in the process. Fuck. He was done for. 

The boys cried out in glee. They practically leapt at him, teeth bared, weapons raised. Pete tried to crawl away, but it was too late. The boys took this opportunity to start beating him with the things they had. The hard metals slammed against his body, cold and rough. The boys were surprisingly aggressive and thorough. He had never met any children who were so forceful. Pete could feel large bruises forming under his skin where ever the brothers hit him. He screamed in agony, not giving up his attempts to escape. But at that moment he could barely move. The pain was so unbearable. He tried to position his arms in such a way that they would shield him from them, or to take his mind away, stop the hurting. Nothing was working. As time slowly passed, the boys started to get rougher. He could feel his skin breaking under their blows, blood starting to seep out of his weakened body. Seeing his blood seemed to excite them.

The boys didn't let up. So Pete didn't either.  
As soon as he got the opportunity, he managed to shift onto his stomach, and started inching himself away. It didn't help much. He couldn't go very fast, of course. He was bleeding and sore and couldn't manage to get onto his feet, so the kids simply shifted along with him, continuously beating him down. His cries ebbed, but didn't fade as he crawled, dirt and dust stinging his open wounds. 

Pete calmed down just long enough to come up with something of a plan. The nunchuck boy jumped at him, and Pete slid his legs up to his chest, causing the kid to fall flat on the ground. His brother roared as Pete scrambled up. He tried to lunge at him, but Pete kicked the kid's feet out from under him. Normally, he would have felt bad about tripping a kid, but not tonight. The yellow cast boy swung at him one last time, but Pete spun around as fast as he could, avoiding the blow, and bolted away, leaving the boys in the dust behind him.  
To his pleasure and confusion they didn't follow him. He kept checking over his shoulder, but they really weren't tailing him anymore. His run slowed to a swift walk, then to a half-walk, half-stumble. The pain the boys had caused was catching up with him. He felt weak from the blood loss. Tripping over his feet, he sank to the ground, leaning against some underbrush for support. The quiet ground felt so inviting. He just wanted to pass out, maybe forget any of this ever happened. But, while he was hurting, his senses were still alert. His eyes darted around the trees. While he was somewhat hidden, Pete worried that someone would find him. He ran his fingers through his hair, not knowing what to think anymore. He figured, though, that he wouldn't be able to take another attack from the Courtney bitch and her psycho army. He just couldn't. Now he was free and he was planning on staying that way. He sunk closer to the ground.  
Despite his racing thoughts and apprehensions, Pete suddenly felt extremely exhausted, and drifted off into a deep sleep. 

-

Andy bolted, speeding into the woods as fast as he could. Damn, these kids were fast! Both of the boys chasing him were very tan with short, dark hair. They had black paint smeared across their faces. One of them was brandishing a thin, yet sturdy-looking metal rod, while the other had a length of chain. No matter how quickly he turned, how fast he ran, the two of them were always right behind him. He didn't know what they wanted, if it was just to scare them, hurt them or to kill them, but none of those options were anything he was keen on. He had been getting pretty strong lately, but there was zero part of him that wanted to hurt these boys. They were kids, for god's sake. Who knows if they even knew what they were doing? And where were their parents? It was the middle of night; these boys looked like they might be 11 to 13.  
No, the only option he saw was to keep running. 

Suddenly, the forest floor went into a steep incline. Andy wasn't expecting it and neither were his feet. When his foot hit the change in altitude, he stumbled, inevitably crashing into the sudden hill. He hit the ground hard, landing roughly on his elbow, but that wasn't nearly as bad as what came next. 

One of the boys ran behind him and held him up in an upright position, gripping his freshly injured elbow in a tight, painful way. The other boy, the one with the metal rod, and proceeded to beat the ever-loving shit out of him. If this had happened on any other night, in any other situation, Andy would have been able to easily just shove the kid off of him and run. However, tonight was different. He was still dazed from the smoke, injured from the fall. And every blow this kid dealt to him made it worse. He started with his stomach, but slowly made his way up his chest and shoulders, until there was no doubt in Andy's mind that his body was covered in bruises and it would be a while before he would be able to move right again.  
Once the kid holding him seemed satisfied, he let go, allowing Andy to fall down again onto his back. He groaned in pain. The boy grinned, before joining his friend, bludgeoning Andy with his chain. Blood sprayed onto the boys' faces and seeped into the ground. The all-too-familiar sensation permeated Andy's throat as he screamed. The boys loved it. 

Finally, there was a break. A pause, a light spot. It was as if the boys' had heard something. They let up just long enough for Andy to scramble to his feet. The boys practically just watched him go. When Andy glanced over his shoulder at the two of them, they were glancing at each other, not showing any intention of following him. He was relieved, for his own current state, but concerned for the future. He ran faster. 

Eventually, he stopped. He couldn't go any further. He couldn't catch his breath and there was a throbbing pain in his side, worse than the rest of his body. He was in a small wooded clearing when he crashed.

For a while he just lay on his back, propped up on his arms, staring at the stars. You could see so many of them tonight, so far from the bright lights of the city. It was like a completely different sky. Then, he slowly slid onto his back, letting his arms lie flat, and drifted off into a fitful sleep. 

-

Joe ran through a clearing. At first he was hesitant to run into the trees; it was harder to see, hence easier to trip and fall. However, the two blond boys chasing him were gaining rapidly. His next thought was that it might be easier to lose them in the dense forest. He shifting his course, he darted into the woods. The kids followed closely behind. 

He'd thought it before and he'd think it again: what is it with these girls and the kids? As Joe dashed between the foliage, he remembered the three girls who had thrown fruit at him earlier. And now he was being chased by two boys, one of whom had a large wooden club, the other with a metal rod. They looked ready to bludgeon him to death. Where were their parents? If he were being pursued by an adult, even one of the vixens, sure, he'd still be running like hell, but he might be able to think of a way to fight his way out of it. He couldn't hit a kid, no matter how creepy or psychotic. These kids, contrarily did not seem adverse to hitting him. 

As Joe ran, he suddenly heard a soft whirring sound. Immediately, a sharp, throbbing pain appeared in his fingers. Of course he'd ended up with switch blade kid. 

"Fuck." He gasped, and he stumbled to his knees. 

He clasped his bloody fingers tightly in his other hand to try to slow the blood flow, but the dirt that had collected on his palms stung the open wounds. 

The kids caught up to him. Joe curled up in agony as the boys began throttling him with their clubs. His body ached all over, matching and ascending the pain in his deeply cut fingers. He felt cuts forming all along his back and legs. He had to get out of this. 

Once he got that thought into his mind, once it was cleared enough of the pain that he could think straight, it wasn't too hard for him. He dug his heels into the dirt and pushed himself forward, out of their immediate reach. Then he scrambled to his feet and bolted. 

Joe expected the boys to follow him, but they didn't. At least, he didn't see them do so. However, he was not taking any chances. The adrenaline he was running on was quickly dissipating; he knew he wouldn't be able to run much longer. He did the only thing he could think of: he hid behind a tree. There were lots of trees there to choose from, so he went with a large round one that he could hide completely behind. He pressed his back against the trunk and sunk to his knees.  
There was so much pain. His chest rose and fell rapidly. There was silence all around him. Where the other boys were, he had no idea. He had no clue how to find them, but he knew he had to try. 

Just...not tonight. 

Joe could already feel his eyelids drooping lazily. In the morning he would search. Right then, he doubted he would have been able to get up. He just remained hidden behind his tree and let himself be overtaken by unconsciousness. 

-

Patrick staggered through the dense woods, hearing someone behind him, but not daring to waste energy looking. He knew who it was. It was dark, the middle of the night, and he could barely see the ground beneath his feet. There would randomly be roots sticking out of the ground, or sinkholes where some small animal had tried to make a home and then stopped. He was just trying to stay upright. He was out of breath. He had no strength. 

The kid, on the other hand, seemed to have none of these problems. He ran at a steady pace behind him, leaping over the roots and ditched with ease, despite the large radio in his hand. To Patrick, a radio seemed like kind of a weird weapon to bring to the this kind of gang-fight thing they had going on, though he supposed it would hurt if the kid were to hit him with it. 

He kept trying to wipe off sweat dripping off his forehead, forgetting that there was a hook on his wrist. He wouldn't remember until he cut himself. 

"Dammit." He winced as fresh blood trickled down his chin. 

Patrick's brain didn't seem to want to accept the fact that he now only had one hand. Not that he blamed it, of course; he didn't want to believe it either. But there it was, every time he looked down. A fucking hook. What was he, a pirate? At any rate, he wasn't going to be playing guitar ever again. As little as that applied to him in current circumstances, it was a depressing thought. 

A tree had fallen across the path. He figured he could just jump over it. It wasn't too wide. Using his hand as a sort of propellor, he made it over this midpoint of the trunk. However at the last possible moment, his foot got caught on a notch in the tree's side. As he tried to land, he ended up slamming hard onto the forest floor. He landed roughly on his arm, grateful that the hook wasn't situated in any sort of lethal position. Even though his abdomen hadn't been sliced open, his arm now hurt to move too much. Patrick got back up onto his feet, ignoring the stiff pains all through his body begging him to stop. He was tired, he was sore. Even though the fall had hurt, at least he hadn't been moving. He hadn't been sitting tied to a chair or physically tortured. He'd just been lying down. He almost let himself slide back onto the ground. 

Then he heard to small sound of a child's feet cracking sticks as he ran through the forest. 

'Right.' He thought.  
He could relax later. There was a crazy kid chasing him. He clutched his aching arm to his chest, he started running again. It was hard to run properly when he couldn't breath right and couldn't move his arms.  
Stumbling, he ended up in a clearing. Moonlight illuminated the grass and caught in the bulbs of dew. Patches of grass were dead and yellowing. 

Patrick was going too fast for the balance he had. There was a small dip in the field that he didn't notice until it was too late. He tumbled to the ground again. The landing was slightly softer, due to the grass instead of sticks and mud, but he wasn't in the mindset to appreciate it. The kid was practically on top of him. He scrambled to get away, inching through the grass with his good arm until he could control his legs enough to get back up. The boy's foot was on his pant leg when he was able to push himself to his feet. He immediately took off sprinting as fast as he could away from him again. 

Then the kid switched on his radio. 

Patrick froze. He didn't know the song, he didn't need to know, it wasn't important. The feeling began as soon as the first chord struck. It started deep in his stomach, bubbling up his throat into his head.

Rage. Pure, unrequited rage. 

‘No.’ Patrick knew what this meant. ‘Not again. Please.’  
He tried to push it down, calm himself, but he could already feel his mind fogging over, overtaken by the rabid emotion. It was like every time he'd ever been angry or even unhappy was being amplified and thrown at him in one spontaneous moment. It felt like his head was going to explode, but part of him liked it. 

Suddenly, it stopped. The rage faded. He heard his own deep, rapid breathing. He saw the grass, the trees. He was still in the woods. He had moved, though. He was standing as if he had been walking towards something.  
He looked up. A man with dark skin and piercing eyes was holding the stereo. His hand was outstretched in a defensive position. The stereo was silent.  
Between them, there was a body. Part of one anyway. The head was more off to the side, not connected. It was the kid. 

Patrick looked back at the man. He looked familiar. He couldn't think of who he was, but he was sure it would come to him. 

"Patrick!" He shouted. He sounded like he had called his name multiple times. 

The singer blinked. He had not heard him. "How did you know to turn off th-"

"Lucky guess." He said cautiously. 

"I'm so sorry." Patrick managed. "I could have-"

"Not your fault, not the time. You need to get out of here." The man warned him. "Now. They're coming."

Patrick stared at him. "But-"

"Now!" He shouted. 

He turned and ran towards the trees on the other side. Later, he wished he had stayed. He left that guy to fend for himself. He didn't even ask his name, or know why he was helping him.  
He ran aimlessly through the forest. He didn't know where he was going or where he should go. He just knew he had to get away. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, helping him to run, but it didn't last long. His breath shortened again and he stumbled to his knees, wheezing. He couldn't move anymore.  
Patrick looked around. He couldn't see or ear anyone. Maybe he would stay here for a bit. He took a slow, deep breath. This was a mess.  
‘Understatement of the year’ he thought, laughing humorlessly.  
Patrick ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his temple. What were they supposed to do? They were all lost and separated. Not to mention now he had an idea of how whatever the girls had done to him worked. He would have to share his idea with the boys if... when they found each other again. They couldn't be too far. Maybe if went to look-  
He tried to get up and almost passed out. Nope. Not now. Patrick lay on his back. Later. The ground was rough and uneven with sticks poking into his back and hitting the base of his skull. It was perhaps the greatest he'd felt in a week. 

Maybe he'd just close his eyes for a minute. Just allow himself a couple minutes to rest. Just a moment to get his strength up. Nothing wrong with that, right?  
It was seconds before he was out cold. 

-

Sean had been at that hospital for a long time. He'd lost track of exactly how long. There hadn't been any windows or calendars or anything of that nature. But during that time he'd been able to pick up on a lot of the things that Courtney had these girls do. He'd known they were going to get this Fall Out Boy group before it had happened. They'd discussed that plan in detail. They'd also talked about the dinner and the experiment and the burning instruments. He did not know if they just forgot he was there and would feel comfortable talking about these things loudly like they did, or if knowing these things and not being able to do anything about it was part of the torture.  
Either way, when he got out, he had a decision to make: get the hell out or, now that he could, help these dudes out. 

It wasn't easy. Part of him wanted to just leave them. After all, they'd eaten that other guy, his friend. He had to keep reminding himself that that wasn't their fault. And then that guy Pete had been the one who actually let him out. He was grateful for that. Sean decided that he would head to a park he had heard mentioned multiple times. If they weren't there, great. He would run away, probably change his name and move to another country. If they were...he'd just have to see how it went. 

He had run all the way from the hospital to the park. It took a while, even at top speed. He got there completely out of breath, and stayed hidden in the trees. The whole place reeked of kerosene. The black van was just sitting there, parked in the dark grass. The back doors were open. He watched in silent horror as a tall man with short dreadlocks, sunglasses, and two chains around his neck struck a match and dropped it into the van. He, and the two vixens with him, slammed the doors and scattered. Sean ducked behind a bush as one of the girls came bolting past him. Cautiously, he peeked his head above the shrubbery. Smoke oozed out of the cracks in between the doors. He could hear panicked coughs and yelling coming from inside.  
The Defenders were still in the car.  
He could help them, open the doors, help get them out. He braced himself to run towards a burning car, when the doors were opened off of their own accord. Pete stumbled out, falling to his knees, coughing like crazy, but definitely alive. After barely three seconds he was back up, pulling his friends out of the van.  
Sean thought about going out again. Maybe help getting them all untied, get them away from the park, Courtney's army, everything. 

But then he heard the biker kids. He shrunk further into the trees. He had heard about these kids as well. They were ruthless. Putting himself out there, even if that made it 5 to 7, five unarmed men to these particular seven armed children were not odds he wanted to be a part of.  
Some part of him maybe would have felt bad for leaving them to fend for themselves, but just then the kids charged at the band. They scattered which was honestly probably their best option. Right past him ran Patrick, the singer. He had hook for a hand, which seemed off. Right behind him was leader kid.  
Sean had never seen this kid in person, but he'd heard of him. This boy had pretty much grown up with the vixen group. He had no sympathy and did whatever they wanted, without question. They loved him. The kid was carrying a large silver stereo, which piqued his interest. He had noticed, these girls never listened to music, unless it was to mess with someone. Then they almost always used it. At a safe distance, he followed the two of them through the woods.  
He wasn't sure why exactly; maybe it had something to do with the radio or the hook or just the fact that Patrick looked like a nice guy, but something was telling him this wasn't going to go well.  
After running through the woods for a while, the three of them reached a clearing. Patrick and the kid bolted into the open night air, but Sean stayed hidden. There was no way he could run across an open field without being seen.  
As it happened, he didn't need to. The two of them hadn't gotten too far out when the kid turned on the radio. 

Sean's eyes widened as Patrick froze. He didn't recognize the song, but it wasn't very good. Slowly, the blonde turned to face the kid. 

His eyes were yellow. 

"Holy shit." Sean gave up hiding. 

This was bad. The experiment had actually worked?!  
He dashed out towards them. He grabbed the kid from behind, putting him into a firm headlock, and pulled in opposite directions. There was a sickening snap as the boy's head came clean off. He'd known he was strong, but damn. The radio fell to the ground, but kept playing. Patrick snarled and began steadily advancing on him. 

"Patrick!" 

No response. He didn't waste his breath. Quickly he grabbed the radio out of the grass. The man was too close. Sean did the only thing he could think of. He clicked off the radio, then held out his hand in defense. 

"Patrick!" He tried again. 

In the silence, the yellow was starting to fade from his eyes. He stumbled to a stop. Distantly, Sean heard something. The crack of sticks and dry leaves, getting louder by the second.  
Someone, someoneS were coming. 

"Patrick?" Nothing. "Patrick!" He shouted again. He had to come back to them. 

Finally, he seemed to hear him. He looked at Sean with wide eyes. "How did you know to turn off th-"

"Lucky guess." Sean cut him off. They didn't have time for this. 

"I'm so sorry." Patrick said softly, his now blue eyes a mirror of guilt and concern. "I could have-"

"Not your fault, not the time." Sean interrupted him, summarizing his thoughts as quickly as he could. "You need to get out of here. Now. They're coming."

Patrick just stared at him. "But-"

"Now!" Sean shouted. 

He could see the silhouettes of two girls approaching out of the corner of his eye. One of them had an ax. If Patrick wanted to live, he had to go now. 

Thankfully, he got away. 

Sean was not so lucky. 

When Patrick ran, He dropped the boom-box and bolted after him. He'd only taken a couple of strides before a searing pain materialized in his back. He cried out and fell onto his stomach. Tears beaded in his eyes. The pain was intolerable.  
He heard two people in heels walking swiftly towards him. There was an agonizing sting as a bloody ax was ripped from his skin. The vixens turned him over onto his back. He felt the ground below him dampening with his blood. The girls started kicking him, jabbing their pointed heels repeatedly into his side. 

"Sean." One of the girls scolded. "You've been causing trouble."

"A lot more than you're worth." Her friend added. 

He didn't say anything. He couldn't. His sides were aching, which was at least distracting him from what he knew was probably a fatal wound in his back. He kept his arms crossed against his chest, for what it was worth, covering his throat.  
The vixen, he recognized her as Alex, grabbed his arms and pulled them apart, pressing them against the ground behind his head. The other one took the handle of the ax and jammed it firmly against his neck. He struggled to free his hands, to squirm out from under her grip. 

"I just want you to know," one of them whispered into his ear, "we'll be able to get what we want, no matter what you did."

"Fuck you." He spat.

"Tsk tsk." She shook her head. "You kiss your momma with that mouth?"

The ax was lifted just long enough for the vixens to get a few more kicks in. 

"Tell me, Sean," Alex whispered this time, "how does it feel to know that all of your sacrifices we for nothing?"

"Go to hell." He growled at her. 

"Oh, sweetie, you first." She smiled. 

The vixen lifted the ax again. Alex started kicking him again, while the other girl rammed the handle of the ax into his stomach. She repeated that too motion many times. Then, she raised the weapon above her head, aiming the blade at the center of Sean's skull. The ax fell with a sickening crunch. 

 

The girls stopped.  
They'd barely broken a sweat. They glanced at one another and nodded. Alex took the handle, and wrenched the ax from the man's cranium. Blood trickled lazily down the shaft. 

"Should we go find the so-called 'Defenders'?" Alex chuckled at the name. 

"They'll never tear each other apart if we keep separating them." He friend smirked. "Besides, you know as well as i do, they won't get too far before The Death Adder will get to them."

Alex grinned and the two girls strode pleasantly back into the night.


	6. Just One Yesterday

> **If heaven's grief brings hell's rain, then I'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday.**

The snake slithered through the forest floor. Its reptilian scales wove around dry leaves and sticks. Its red and white stripes stuck out in the brown landscape like a traffic cone.  
'Don't eat me' the colors warned, 'i'm poisonous.' Wether it was or not was something only the snake itself knew.  
It slithered across an unnatural bump in the ground. It was cool, like metal, not something one would find in the woods. It was a hook. It had been partially covered by leaves, so the snake hadn't seen it at first. It had, however, seen the body.  
It was a live body, of course. His chest rose and fell steadily; he was asleep. A deep sleep, grant it, but merely asleep. This was one he was looking for.  
The snake moved up the man's torso, heading towards the man's face. It flicked it's tongue apprehensively. It didn't plan on harming the human, it did not need to. Just wake him up, freak him out. That's what they had decided the snake would do anyway. The snake always did what they wanted.

Patrick woke with a start. The snake's tongue flicked his chin. 

"Oh god!" 

Patrick did not hate snakes, per say, but he didn't exactly want one crawling around on him when he was asleep. He frantically brushed it off of him and scrambled to his feet.  
Wait. The snake was already gone. Had there even been a snake?  
Patrick ran his fingers through his hair. Now that that small panic attack was over, he noticed how much pain there was. He hurt all over. Especially his head. Images flashed through it of things that had happened over the past week. They didn't seem to be in any sort of order. He was on that operation table, then sitting on the ground in the woods, then hooked up to the machines in the chapel. Looking around, he noticed with a sinking realization that he had absolutely no idea where he was. Some sort of small clearing, obviously, but every tree looked the same, every direction identical. But even beyond that... he had no way of knowing if they were even in Illinois anymore. It had been at least a week. 

Patrick allowed himself a small moment to smile. Sunlight. This was the first time he'd seen real sunlight in a week. 

A week...it had been a week since they'd been kidnapped. Since he'd been tortured and gotten his hand cut off. Since that awful meal where-  
His eyes widened in surprise.  
He remembered. He could picture the table the...food, the girls, his friends, the drugs, even what must have been hallucinations. All of it. It was all there. He remembered everything. Of course, now that his mind was clear, he could tell that some of it was obviously drug-induced, but not all of it. Was it normal to remember toxin-induced hallucinations? Patrick shivered, though it wasn't cold.  
Unfortunately, that did not help him figure out where he was, or where to go, or where his friends were. 

Shit. His friends. They had completely split up last night. How the hell was he supposed to find them? They could be anywhere. He had no idea how big these woods were, or even roughly which direction they had run. He didn't even know if they were alive. He couldn't just leave them behind here, could he?  
A wave of pain swept over him. He swayed on his feet and almost blacked out. Nope. That wasn't good. He had to get help. He was no use to anyone unable to move properly, or passed out. A hospital, something. If he could only find a road...

He stopped and listened. If he really strained his ears, he could hear what could maybe be a highway, or at least a road that frequently had cars on it. Well, that was better than nothing. Patrick took one last wistful look at the forest, as if hoping his band mates would just appear, making this easier for him. Unfortunately, he was still as alone as he had ever been. He turned and started making the slow, painful journey towards the road.  
Fortunately, the underbrush didn't seem to get any thicker. If there had been a ton of branched sticking out or roots everywhere to easily trip over, he doubted he would have made it. Already, he was having to stop every so often to catch his breath.  
He reached the edge of the forest. It, by some sort of blessed miracle, opened directly onto a road. Patrick took a deep breath, putting his hands on his knees. Some sign of civilization outside the army of that Courtney bitch. Now he just needed people. 

The soft hum of a distant car engine was steadily growing. He looked up and raised his hand. A small white car. Maybe, maybe... nope. The car kept driving. Damn. Why...  
Oh. Right. His hair was a hot mess. One of his hands was a hook. He was covered in blood. He definitely wouldn't pick himself up if he saw himself on the side of the road at that moment. Patrick sighed. This was just one hopeless ordeal after another.  
He began trudging his way down the side of the road. He walked slowly with a small limp, one leg dragging slightly behind the other one. Every footfall hurt horribly. He wasn't going to get anywhere like this, but what choice did he have?  
Another car. He heard it before he turned around. A red pick-up truck. He raised his hand, not the hook, hopefully. To his surprise and relief, the truck stopped in front of him. A delicate hand pushed open the door. Gratefully, Patrick climbed in the passenger seat. 

"Thank you." 

She was a petite woman, with wavy brown hair and a large black hat. She was a sparkly blue and black top, and soft lipstick. She looked at him with large eyes. 

"Are you okay?" She asked, concerned. 

Obviously not. "I think i need a hospital." He told her. 

"Sure." She nodded. "There's one not to far out."

"Thank you." He said again. 

The red truck started driving again down the road. 

"So, what's your name, sport?" She chirped as she drove. 

"Patrick." He managed. "Yours?"

"Louisa." She told him. "Though most people call me Foxes."

"Foxes? Plural?" 

"Yep."

"Okay. Um...cool."

"So what do you do?"

"I'm, uh, in a band."

"With one hand?" She raised an eyebrow, looking at the hook. "How does that work?"

"I sing." He explained, regretfully. 

"Hmm. Can i ask you a question, Patrick?"

"Uh, sure."  
She took her eyes off the road to look at him. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I, uh, had a bit of a run in with, um, a biker gang." He told her. 

"Uh huh." She seemed skeptical. "And what about your hand?"

"Um, it's been like that." He said quickly, turning towards the window. 

Small talk was not really going to work here. Too much had happened that he didn't want to think about. So he focused on other things. The trees, the sky, anything. It was actually quite a beautiful day. He rolled the window down and let his elbow sit out in the open air. And if Foxes here could get him to a hospital, if he could get better, maybe, just maybe things would be okay.  
He, of course, was blatantly ignoring the fact that the vixens still had the briefcase. He ignored the fact that they were probably out looking for them. He ignored the fact that there was still some sort of force inside him that was still active and could still be triggered. He ignored the fact that one or all of his friends could be dead, and he would have no idea. He knew he was ignoring these things, but at the moment, the way he was, there was nothing he could currently do about any of them. Yeah, he felt guilty as hell about it, but the cool, fresh air on his skin felt so clean. He was out. He hadn't felt this good in a week. He hadn't felt good at all in a week. And no, he didn't count the time he'd been stuffed chockfull with drugs, like a turkey at a wild Thanksgiving dinner. That hadn't been 'good' no matter what he might have thought at the time. Now that he remembered all of that, he almost wished he didn't. Patrick glanced back at Foxes.  
His eyes widened. 

She was no longer at the wheel. Her window was down and she was staring vacantly out of it like he had been. Both of her hands were under her chin.  
Frantically, Patrick slid across the bench and grabbed the wheel himself. He had to lean over a bit, since her feet were up on the seat, and driving was very hard, as he now only had one hand. 

"Um... so, what are you doing?" Patrick called to her over the roar of the wind through the open windows. 

"Can you drive for a bit?" She asked dreamily. "I need a moment."

"...okay." Wasn't he going to meet anyone normal? Then again, someone normal probably wouldn't have picked him up in the first place.  
"I don't know where we're going." He told her.

"The road goes straight ahead for a couple more miles." She explained, moving to sit on the windowsill. 

Now only her legs were in the car. How her hat wasn't flying off was a mystery to Patrick, but he didn't bother asking. He was more concerned that she might fall out of the car herself. She had bent back like some sort of exotic dancer, smiling and taking in the sunlight.  
Then she came back into the car. She slid back behind the wheel, forcing Patrick back into the passenger seat. He stared at her like she was crazy. 

"We should be get there soon." She informed him, taking control of the car again as if nothing had happened. 

-

Staggering across a road, Andy was finding it difficult to stand. He'd woken up in an uncomfortable position on the hard forest floor. He was stiff and sore, either from the awful night sleep or... he blanked. He'd rubbed his temples trying, and failing, to remember. Nothing. Last night was just gone. He had no recollection of anything. He tried to think back a little further and began to panic. There was nothing. His mind was void of anything since he'd lost his car, like a week ago. How was that even possible? He hadn't hit his head or anything, had he? Obviously, he wouldn't remember if he had. 

Andy had just sort of stumbled out of the woods. He hadn't tried, exactly, he just sort of ended up out in the sun. He was glad to be out of the trees. He didn't think he'd need to be in the forest for a good while. However, as he quickly discovered, he was having difficulties where movement was concerned. His entire body just felt drained, like all of his energy had been sapped out. And he was sore. Every single muscle in his body ached like hell, and too much motion caused a few of his cuts to reopen, especially down his stomach. He didn't remember what had happened to him, but it must have been pretty bad. He badly needed help. And on top of that, he was starving. He hadn't eaten in who knows how long, and his stomach rumbled over all of the pain.  
Along the edge of the road ran a sidewalk, or maybe it was a bike trail. Andy stumbled along it for a while, waiting, hoping, that a car would drive past him, but the road remained desolate. He was alone.  
The bike trail veered sharply to the right. Andy followed it. It was now going along with a hill, and had a small stone was against it. He leaned on the wall gratefully for support. He had some sort of puncture wound on his abdomen, and he wasn't sure how he'd gotten it. Then again, he wasn't much sure of anything. Probably, he been attacked by someone. And some part of him felt that whoever it was would keep looking for him. He needed to get better. And hide.  
A possible option showed up in front of him. The trail continued under a bridge. It was tall and narrow, but seemed to be fairly long. Maybe not perfect, but at least it was shady, and provided a lovely, most comfortable breeze. He continued under it, not daring to take him hand from the small wall. 

At first glance, he thought it was empty, save for himself. Then he heard a monstrous snore. It echoed around the solid, rock walls of the stricture. Laying on an elevated platform was an old man with long, yellowing hair. His teeth stuck out in weird angles. His finger nails were dirty and crumbling. They peaked out of a beat-up pair of fingerless gloves. In his hands he tightly clenched a bottle hidden by a brown paper bag. Homeless and a drunk. His stomach rose and fell steadily in time with his cavernous snoring. Andy approached the man cautiously. He wasn't sure why he was doing this originally, but when he was close enough, the answer became clear. 

Beans. 

Yes, even at the time, it sounded ridiculous. He was just so hungry. The man had an open can of beans. It had a white plastic fork sticking out of it. Next to them was a bottle of water. But beans first. They were just... sitting there. Surely there would be any problem if he just... He was standing right in front of the sleeping man. Andy took a deep breath and moved to take the can. 

Suddenly, the dead-to-the-world drunkard sprang to life. His grubby fingers latched greedily and firmly around the can in Andy's hands. His crooked teeth were clenched and bared. His eyes, a brilliant clear blue, were shining crazily. He looked unhinged, dangerous. The two men wrestled violently for the food, but only for a short moment. Andy was extremely low on energy and felt weak, so the crazy old man easily ripped the can from his hands.  
Andy fell backwards onto his butt and quickly started to move away. He was running on pure adrenalin and he knew it. When he started running to get away, the drummer could feel no pain in his stomach, or legs, or head, or anything else. He also knew that it wouldn't last forever. 

The sidewalk continued, but the wall stopped. Andy limped along the edge of the trail, hand clutching his leg. Running had just made it worse. The trail branched off into a t-shape. Andy sighed and picked a direction. He had no idea where he was, or where he was going, so there probably wasn't a real wrong decision. He was having trouble keeping himself upright. He needed medical attention, but he didn't know how or where to get it. Maybe if he just-

Something moved in the corner of his eye. It was red and white stripped and low on the ground. He looked at it.  
It was a snake. 

Andy stumbled and fell into the grass. He pushed himself away from the animal. He remembered everything. He wasn't sure how, but this snake must have jogged his memory. He remembered being in a straitjacket in that room with the headphones. His ears rung just thinking about it. The snake had been there. He was sure of it. Slithering around the television set. It had also been at the dinner. The dinner! For the first time, he remembered the dinner. He almost wished he didn't. As a drug-hating vegan, he could have thrown up just thinking about it. And those kids last night, they'd gotten him pretty bad. 

Andy pulled himself back to reality. The snake had disappeared. He looked around frantically, but it didn't seem to be anywhere in the grass that he could see. He took a deep breath and moved back onto his feet. Road. Civilization. People. Hospital. He needed it. He hoped that if he just followed the trail, it would lead to a road people used.  
He was correct. The trail bent to move alongside a thru road. Just near him, a red pickup truck was speeding down the asphalt. The driver was a woman with brown hair and a hat. The person in the passenger seat was pointing directly at him. 

It was Patrick. 

Andy let out a breath of air he hadn't realized he was holding in. The truck pulled up in front of him and Patrick motioned for him to get in the back. Andy climbed up as quickly as his body would let him and the car started moving again. Patrick peered out of the open window, letting his hand move back towards Andy. Andy grabbed it tightly and the two of them nodded reassuringly. They didn't say anything. They didn't need to.  
The truck kept moving. 

-

Joe stumbled down an empty beaten-down pathway. Damn, his leg hurt. He couldn't even walk upright properly. He had to keep pressure on the gaping hole in his upper calf so that he wouldn't bleed out. So far, that didn't seem to be working. He'd felt so light headed when he'd woken up in the middle of the forest. His hands almost immediately had gone to his leg. Whoever had gotten to him had gotten him pretty badly. He was sure he'd almost bled out. Joe's jeans were torn and stained a deep, wet red, which had spread from his leg to the ground beneath him. While moving it would hurt like hell, he knew staying put wasn't an option. Without help, he would definitely not make it. And seeing as he didn't seem to have a phone on him, which seemed pretty odd in this day and age, he had no choice. 

He'd made his way out of the trees fairly quickly, considering how he had no idea where he was. The sun felt surprisingly good on his skin. He had a sinking suspicion he hadn't been out in it in a while. That was about the time he realized he couldn't remember anything since the end of the tour. He'd been getting gas for his car and then... nothing. Just an empty void that it hurt to think about. Where was he? What had happened? Specifically to his leg? Were the boys okay? How long had it been? He had no idea. On a more normal day, he'd probably have panicked. However, in his current situation, he could barely think of anything but his leg. His mind had gone into full survival mode. He took a closer look as he reached the other side of the path. It was a deep gash, like a knife had been flung into it. It continued to ooze a steady flow of thick, deep red blood.  
He stopped looking. 

Joe chose a direction and started walking. He didn't know where to go, but he had found a path, and it had clearly been walked along often, so there must be civilization around there somewhere, right? For at least ten minutes, it didn't seem like it.  
Then, like a gift from heaven, a building. A cottage, to be specific, like someone's small country home. It was out on its own in the middle of no where. There didn't seem to be any other signs of civilization in the immediate vicinity. The house itself was an off-white color, coated in crumbling stone and a failing roof. 

At first, Joe wasn't certain there was anyone living in it anymore. Then, as he got nearer to the house, he heard a soft swishing sound, like someone sweeping. He leaned against the wall of the house for support. At this juncture, he could barely move. The pain in his leg was blinding. He needed a hospital, a doctor, at least some way to keep pressure on the damn thing. He must have looked insane. Around the corner of the house, on the front porch, a little lady with a floral bathrobe was holding a broom. Joe had no clue what to say to her. 

As it turned out, he didn't need to say anything.  
At the first glimpse of Joe's piercing eyes and blood-soaked figure, the lady dropped her broom and screamed.  
Joe barely noticed as she dashed away as fast as her slippered feet could carry her. Something far more important had caught his eye. Perhaps earlier in the day, before she'd begun sweeping her porch, the woman had done the laundry. She'd washed all her white sheets and had hung them to dry out in front of her house. They billowed in the wind like sails on a ship.  
Perfect. Just what he needed. 

Joe staggered limply towards the sheets. He felt tears welling up in his eyes. These free-steps were too painful. The dull throb was becoming an insistent, prominent stab, that seemed to be growing by the second. Joe practically fell onto the laundry, smearing blood across the freshly washed whites. He just wanted them to rip. Finally, with a mighty pull, a strip of cloth tore itself from the rest of the sheet. Joe took the cloth and bound it tightly around his wound. It stung and the rag was almost immediately turned a deep red, but it seemed to be working. He could actually stand up straight. He let out a sigh of relief. 

But where did he go from here? He had no idea where he was. He had no idea where he'd come from, or even who had been with him or chasing him, for that matter. He sighed and put his hands on his hips.  
As he stood, he noticed something moving over and around his feet. It was scaly and flexible. Slowly, he looked down. It was a snake, red and white and black, slithering between his black boots. 

And he remembered. Little girls throwing food at him, being drugged at the gas station, getting stabbed in the leg by a kid with a switch blade, even the dinner. Yikes. Busy week. Even as he stared, the snake was gone. He hadn't seen it slither away. It was just gone. He blinked a couple of times.  
He had to find his friends. He knew that now. They could be anywhere and they were stronger together. This makeshift band-aid wasn't going to last forever, though. He still needed a doctor. 

Unfortunately, he did not know where either of those things might be. So, he chose a direction and started moving in it. Any movement was better than staying here. He was pleased to find that he could actually move. Sure, it was less than ideal and painful as hell, but it was a better hell than before. An almost tolerable hell.  
Eventually, he found his way to a road. He seemed to be good at picking directions. Down the road, he saw a red pickup truck driving hid way. As it got closer, he able to see who was driving it. There was some girl he'd never seen before and was that  
Patrick?!  
The truck drove up to him. Andy was in the back! 

"Oh good god." Joe mumbled, astonished. 

Andy gave him a small smile and held out his arm. Joe grabbed it firmly and Andy hoisted him into the back of the truck. 

"Welcome aboard." Andy said as the pickup began moving again. 

He was a mess, too. In fact, he and Patrick both looked to be practically on the verge of death. He knew he didn't look much better. He wasn't sure which kids had gone after Andy, but he'd been beat up pretty bad. 

"Your leg." Andy sounded concerned. 

"Switchblade kid." Was all Joe needed to say. 

Andy grimaced in sympathy. 

"You don't look to good yourself." Joe noted. 

"I'm not." Andy nodded shortly. 

Joe looked over his shoulder. Patrick hadn't said anything, but he was definitely listening. Next to him, the girl twirled her hair around her finger and continued to drive. 

"Where's Pete?"

"I don't know." Andy answered, his voice smaller than usual. 

They rode the next few miles in silence.

-

Pete had woken up slowly. He'd had a splitting headache and everything was sore. Worse, he could barely remember anything about the last couple of days. It was like the gap of amnesia had spread through the course of the week. Could you even get sectional amnesia like that? He didn't know. He'd quickly given up on racking his brain. He knew he wouldn't find anything. He also knew he had to get moving. He couldn't very well stay in these woods, even if he couldn't be exactly sure how he got there. He was walking down a clearly worn-down path. It was a sign people had been there before. He knew he needed people. He felt like he was dying, like he'd been hit by a truck. Every time he moved, it was like hot irons on his skin, or one hundred swords simultaneously being thrust into his body. He needed a hospital. But first, he had to find people. Someone who could help him physically, maybe even help his memory return.  
As he walked, Pete came across an apple tree. His stomach rumbled. Obviously, he had no idea when the last time he'd eaten was. He reached out his arm and wrapped his fingers around a small piece of fruit. It was warm in his cold hands. Having slept outside and lost so much blood had not been good for him. He brought the apple up to his face and took a bite. 

It tasted strange. Unusual, not like he remembered an apple tasting. He looked at the fruit between his fingers. The inside, as opposed to the normal pale white of an apple, was a deep red.  
Blood red, in fact.  
He recognized the taste. He remembered where he had tasted it before. The fruit fell onto the ground, leaving a trail of blood streaking his hand. He spit the apple out of his mouth, and blood accompanied it.  
Pete fell to his knees, coughing ferociously, blood trickling from his lips. He felt a squirming sensation in the back of his throat. He moved to almost throw up, and blood was not the only thing that came out.  
A live red-and-white stripped snake hit the dirt below him and slithered away. 

"Holy-" 

Pete stumbled backwards away from the snake, but it had disappeared. There's no way he just actually threw up a snake. He wiped blood off of his mouth and onto his sleeve. 

He remembered. Everything. That snake had been there the first time he'd tasted blood like that apple, like what was on his hands, his clothes. The snake had been crawling around on him there and then again when...when he'd killed someone. The dinner. He remembered it and, by god, he wished he didn't. He could feel the taste of... the food, the texture, sliding down his throat. He remembered desperately wanting more. He remembered the drugs and the smoke and the drink; he hadn't recognized the taste at the time, but now he was certain.  
He wanted to throw up again. 

But he knew he had to keep moving. He couldn't stay in the woods forever. And now if he was going to be having hallucinations... He needed a hospital.  
Slowly, Pete made his way out of the trees. He was near a parking lot. If he hadn't been in so much pain, he might have laughed. It seemed so normal. After everything the past week had brought, it was so strange that something as normal as a parking lot would seem so unusual.  
As it was, he could barely make it up the stairs to said parking lot. His limbs didn't seem to want to work properly. Every few feet, he was plagued by inhibiting flashbacks, which effected him not only mentally, but physically as well. They would cause him to almost black-out, and he'd have a splitting headache. Hopefully once he got all his memories back, they would stop.

In order to get up the stairs to the parking lot, he had to crawl, like some sort of salamander. His hands gripped the crumbling stone of the steps, staining them red with his blood. He pressed his feet against the asphalt, trying to push himself up to level ground. Everything hurt.  
The parking lot was deserted except for two people: a mother and her daughter. The daughter had on a frilly pink dress and a tiara, like she had come from some sort of pageant. They had not seen him yet.  
So, Pete did the first thing that came to his mind. He shouted. 

"Please!" He held out his hand. "Help me, please!"

The little girl screamed. Pete suddenly remembered he was coated in blood and dirt, and probably looked like a psychopath. The girl's mom clasped her hand and the two of them began running towards their car across the lot. 

"No, wait!" Pete yelped. Staggering, he dashed after them. "I only want-"

"Keep away from us!" The mother yelled. 

The little girl hadn't stopped screaming. Pete was almost surprised police hadn't shown up.  
He didn't stop yelling. He wasn't sure why. It was obvious that they weren't going to listen to him. But he did not know what else to do. He was low on options at the moment.  
The women reached their car. Both of them ran to the far side and climbed in behind the wheel. The girl climbed over her mom's seat and into the passenger. Pete got to the car seconds after they did. As he went to go in for the window, he had another flashback. 

 

He was standing on the roof. The sky was a brilliant blue, buildings stretching into it. There was a gentle breeze. There was no blood. There was no pain. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of fear and impending misfortune. At the time, he didn't know where his friends were, or what exactly had happened to Patrick.  
His falcon flew past him and he briefly wondered why.  
Then came the first actual pain; merely a precursor to what he now knew was to come. A blonde, he knew it was the one he'd slept with, that bitch, jabbed a syringe roughly into his neck. He blacked out. 

 

Pete came back into the world screaming. He slammed his bloodied palms against the window of the car. He saw the girl frantically shrieking inside the car, but at the moment, he didn't care. They had to listen to him. He couldn't stay here. He needed help. He needed-

The window rolled down just low enough for the girl to shoot a dash of pepper-spray directly into Pete's eyes.  
Pete collapsed onto the asphalt, hands over his face. Son of a bitch, that hurt! It felt like his eyes were on fire, like they would melt out of his skull. He wanted to tear his head in half. His eyes were watering profusely under his closed eyelids and his nose was running. Over his own agonized screams, which he was almost tired of hearing, Pete heard the car racing away. 

Then, it was quiet. He didn't know where they had come from, he didn't know if there was anyone else around for miles. As far as he was concerned, he was alone. He must have laid up in the parking lot in fetal position for at least five solid minutes before he felt he could open his eyes, before he felt he could move. Shakily, he crawled to his feet. Pete was at a complete loss. He had absolutely no idea what to do. 

He started walking. He didn't know where he was going, or where to go, but he figured, if he could maybe find some sort of well-traveled road, he could maybe find someone who could help him.  
He emerged from a bit of shrubbery at the edge of the lot and was pleasantly surprised to find just that. A road, stretching on seemingly endlessly in both directions. Apparently, he has found it at the perfect time. Just as he was out in the open, a red pickup truck pulled up in front of him. Joe and Andy were the back. 

"Pete!" Joe exclaimed waving his hands. "C'mon up." He held out his arm and helped hoist Pete into the back of the truck.  
"Glad we found you." The truck started moving. 

"Me too." Pete agreed. He gave Andy a tight hug. "Good to see you, man." He smiled. 

Andy smiled grimly as Joe gave him a rough, yet comforting pat on the back.  
Patrick poked his head out of the window. 

"Guys, Foxes says there is a thing of water under that coat there."

Foxes? Pete didn't ask. Andy rummaged under the jacket lying in the corner and pulled out a large plastic jug full of water. He smacked his lips in anticipation. He hadn't realized how parched he was. Andy took a swig of the liquid, then passed it to Joe, who in turn passed it to Pete. He brought the jug to his lips, letting water dribble down his cheeks and streak his clothes. He didn't care. Even though it was a full gallon or more of water and there were only three of them, it was almost empty. 

"You look like shit." Joe commented as Pete let the jug fall from his lips. 

"Right back at'cha, man." Pete nodded. "Your leg okay?"

"Great. Some kid with a baton lodged a switchblade in it."

"Oh my god. Are you going to be alright?"

"Probably. We're headed for a hospital. Right 'trick?" He called the last part over his shoulder. 

"Linda Vista Community." A girl's voice, the driver, answered back. "I think you'll like it there."

"Good." Joe nodded. 

"Ahaha, take that." Pete exclaimed, raising his middle fingers in the air. "Fuck you, Courtney."

Foxes pursed her lips, but none of them saw.  
Rather quickly, Foxes pulled the truck up into the grass in front of a building. The plaque on the brick installment read "Linda Vista Community Hospital", but the building seemed abandoned. The parking lot was empty, and the windows were dark and several were boarded up. Something was wrong. The boys in the back of the truck surveyed the landscape anxiously.  
There was not a single person to be seen, other than the five of them. Not even any animals seemed to be there. They couldn't hear anything except the car radio, playing an old familiar song they couldn't exactly make out. Pete glanced at Patrick and Foxes. His eyes widened. Patrick was rocking back and forth, clutching his head and groaning.  
Suddenly, there was a muffled *SMACK*. Andy and Joe followed Pete's gaze. Patrick's fist was smashed against the window separating the front of the truck from the back. He roared angrily. His eyes were wide, and staring wildly at them,  
and were bright yellow. 

"Shit." Pete muttered, already moving. "Get out of the car. Run."

"What?"

"Run!"

He leapt over the side of the truck and landed hard on the ground. Pain like a bolt of lightning shot up his leg, but he ignored it and bolted for the door of the hospital, hoping Andy and Joe were doing the same. He didn't waste energy looking. So what if the building looked condemned? It was better than hiding out in the empty, exposed field.  
Pete threw open the front doors and ran inside. He heard Joe right after him, and Andy not far behind. 

Just beyond them, Patrick, no, not-Patrick, walking swiftly and steadily, let out a furious roar.


	7. Where Did the Party Go?

**My old aches become new again. My old friends become exes again.**

When Pete first explained what he had seen in that hospital chapel a few days back, Andy didn't know what to believe. It seemed insane that the vixens could change someone so dramatically. If he was being honest, it didn't seem possible. He knew Patrick. He had for a long time. The man would never hurt a fly, much less Pete. They were best friends. Nothing anyone could do would change that. And the yellow eyes? That was just ridiculous. His eyes were a brilliant blue. Everyone knew that. The whole thing seemed unreasonable. He'd chocked it all up to Pete being caught up in the heat of the moment. There was no way any of it had been possible. 

Now, he took it all back. 

From the moment this thing had punched the window of that truck, he changed his mind. This thing the girls had created was definitely not Patrick. It didn't act like Patrick. It didn't walk like Patrick. It didn't sound like Patrick. It didn't even seem to be able to use verbal communication, except for growling. It almost didn't even look like Patrick. 

As the shortest guy in the group, the one who wears a fedora and says "holy smokes", Patrick was less than intimidating. All three of them had brought this up on multiple occasions. But this creature these girls had made him into; it was downright terrifying to be faced with. 

And his eyes. Piercing, bright, narrow. Andy knew those glowing yellow eyes would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.

How could this happen? What exactly had they done that could fabricate a transformation of the nature? He'd never seen anything like it. It was beyond science. It just didn't seem possible.   
And yet, there it was. 

Whatever the case, Not-Patrick was right behind him. He was going as fast as he could, this thing was merely walking, steadily, as if it knew it had nothing to fear. As if it knew they had nowhere to go.   
Andy tried to run faster. 

The first room the boys ran into was the hospital lobby. Or, at least, it used to be. Clearly, it hadn't been used as a hospital in a long time. The room was bathed in a dim yellow light emanating from the long fixture on the wall behind the front desk. Dying plants and torn furniture littered the floor. Something terrible had happened here, and Andy was fairly certain he did not want to know what that something was. Under the light was a symbol: a circle, with dashes like a minimalistic clock, and a crossed out music note in the middle. It gave him an extremely uneasy feeling.   
He ran into Pete and Joe. The three of them stood in a nervous clump on the edge of the room. 

"You weren't joking earlier." Andy managed through raspy breaths. 

Pete shook his head solemnly.   
Joe pointed. Patrick was ripping the door wide open with his hook. The edge clanged violently against the outside of the building. He snarled. 

"We should run." Joe said, almost unnecessarily. 

Andy was already sprinting into a hallway. It's lights flickered on and off menacingly. Joe and Pete followed close behind him. Frantically, the three men tried to find someplace to hide more safely than an out in an open hallway. A dark exam room would be almost perfect, but every single door was locked. They couldn't get into any of them and they were wasting time. 

"Dammit!" Pete groaned in a loud whisper. "What are we supposed to do?"

If possible, Pete's question made Andy even more concerned. Pete always had a plan. He always seemed in control of the situation. But without Patrick... He needed him. They all did. Patrick was like their rock. If now even Pete was at a loss they really were in trouble.   
He took it upon himself to think of something, anything, to do next. Only one idea popped up into his mind, and he hated it. 

"Keep looking." His voice was tight. "There has to be at least three unlocked rooms in this whole hospital."

"Three?"

"We'll have to split up." He hated himself for saying it. "It'll make it harder for Pat-... Him to find us. If we're all sitting ducks in the same place-"

Neither of them seemed to like it, but they both agreed. The trio continued down the winding hallways in search of unlocked doors. It was only a couple more minutes before-

"Got one!" Joe's voice. 

"Me too!" Pete. 

"Go." Andy told them. "Stay hidden. We'll try to find each other later."

"Good luck." Joe said, "See you soon," before he disappeared into his room. 

Pete nodded curtly at him before Andy turned and continued down the way, leaving his friends behind. He knew he had to, but part of him thought 'well, maybe you don't'. Something deep in his gut was telling him this was a terrible, terrible idea.   
The hallway ended in a staircase going up. His joints were beginning to ache again, despite the adrenaline. He wasn't sure climbing the stairs was a great idea. However, just staying out in the hallway at the bottom wasn't an option, and he wasn't sure he wanted to risk using the elevator, if it was even functional at this point. So, Andy started his slow, painful endeavor up the staircase. 

He was rewarded with an unlocked door, right at the top. Approaching slowly, Andy pushed the door open with caution.   
'One can never be too careful' he reminded himself. As far as he new, there could be more vixens here. No matter where they seemed to go, they hadn't escaped.   
However, this room was empty, if you could call it a room. It was more of a closet, really. Andy let out a sigh of relief. A closet containing medical supplies. Bandages, alcohol, maybe even pain meds. Clearly, it had been used many times when the hospital was a functioning establishment, but there was plenty for just him. He walked into the closet, closing the door behind him. He thought it might be dark, but the space was filled with the same flickering lighting as the hallway and lobby. But it was fine. He could stay in here, patch himself up a bit, and still be safe, as long as he stayed out of the line of sight from the little window in the door. 

Now that the adrenaline had really worn off, he realized just how awful he felt. His entire body was on fire. His joints were stiff, his body was aching and bruised. He'd completely forgotten about the open sore that graced his lower abdomen. Blood had long-since soaked through most of his shirt, staining the previous white into a deep red-brown. He staggered against the yellow grate-like shelves, grabbing desperately at the packs of bandages loosely stacked on the shelves. He winced. Every little movement hurt.   
Hands full of bandages, Andy sunk to the floor. He hadn't realized just how much he'd been depending on the adrenaline. Already, he was drenched in sweat, unable to catch a steady breath. He knew that if he tried to stand now, he'd collapse. 

Slowly, he commenced the task of trying to patch himself up. He had never done this before, so he wasn't quite sure where to start. He did know that it wasn't clean. He'd been in the woods, on the ground, in the back of a truck. If he didn't get this cut cleaned out, it would definitely become infected. Andy ripped of a small square of bandage to try to impede the bleeding. Even just a small dab stung like hell, but he knew it was about to get worse.   
On what was thankfully a lower shelf, he saw exactly what he was looking for: a small bottle of rubbing alcohol. With shaky hands, he grasped the bottle and popped off the cap, bracing himself for the upcoming few seconds. 

He still wasn't quite prepared. 

He hadn't gotten more than a couple drops on when the pain center of his brain forced him to stop. It was worse than anything he'd felt, maybe ever. It was like acid. It burned. It felt like his skin was smoking. He let out a howl of agony, then winced at the sound. He had to be quiet. Patrick was around here somewhere. It was supposed to hurt. That meant it was working. He needed to suck it up before he got himself caught. 

He grit his teeth and tried again. This time, he managed with only an aggravated hiss. Quickly wrapping himself up, he allowed himself a sigh of relief. It still hurt like hell, but at least the bleed was secure, the wound held in tight. The constant pressure was helping immensely. In a few minutes, he might even be able to manage attempting to stand. 

He had done it. At least something had gone right.   
For the moment, however, he sunk lower onto the floor. Until all this blew over, he needed to stay out of sight. 

-

Pete couldn't think straight. He didn't know what to do. He was trapped in a hospital with what used to be his best friend, but now, if he was found, Patrick would probably try and kill him. How had this happened? He had seemed fine in the car. Was it the girl, Foxes; did she have something to do with it? Probably, she was the only one in the front with him. But how? What had the vixens done to get him to change? More importantly... How do they change him back? How do they erase, or reverse, whatever change they had made? If they didn't figure out that last part... Pete couldn't let himself finish that thought. They would figure it out.   
This whole thing was just crazy, and his mind was in a panicked blur. He didn't know what to do. He'd never been in a situation even close to this one. When it had been asked of him what to do next, he blanked. He'd given them nothing. Then Andy had said they would be safer split up, and he couldn't help but feel like he was wrong. Being alone, he felt more exposed and defenseless. Not to mention, he had no way of knowing if his friends were okay. The only problem was, he was laughably unable to think of any plans, much less any better ones. Andy was doing his best, which was better than Pete was doing. He knew he'd let them both down back there, but he couldn't help it. He wanted to contribute, to take control like he normally could. But he just didn't know what to do, and he was freaking out.

The door slammed behind him. Pete staggered into the room, scanning his new surroundings frantically. He was in what must have been an office. It was small, and in complete disarray. Pete did not know what exactly had happened here, and he didn't particularly want to. Anything that left a hospital in such ruin must have been extremely bad. There was a sort of corner-desk naturally in the corner of the room, and next to it lay a broken printer. The printer was slumped against the wall like wet towel, clinging to the sturdy surface for support. The top was hanging at a slightly unnatural angle. The lights were a dim and eerie color, constantly and erratically flickering, just as they had been in the hallways. The counters that lined the wall were cluttered with medical supplies and such, like filter paper and a box of used needles. The people must have all left in a hurry. Everything looked as if it had been just dropped. Yet, with the flickering lights and broken appliances and papers and things everywhere, it was hard to imagine that the evacuation had been peaceful. 

Yes, this room would work fine. It veered off around a corner where the cabinets started, making it ideal for hiding from the small window in the door. He should have been able to hide safely there for a while.   
But, that was not at the front of his mind. The first thing he'd done upon entering the room was scan the shelves and counters for anything that might be useful, and something had caught his attention. He'd seen something amidst the clutter that was far more important to him at this moment in time then what had happened in the past. Something he was certain he had not seen in the week he'd been out of circulation. 

A phone.   
An honest-to-god phone, just sitting on the counter.   
It was by no means a cellphone, more like an old home phone, but right then, Pete did not care. He did not give a single solitary fuck what kind of phone it was. He could actually call for help. For the first time this week maybe they could get a little outside intervention. He could depend on someone else to get them out of this. He ran for it, letting his fingers explore the buttons gratefully. He picked the phone up and held it to his ear. 

Nothing. 

Pete's heart sank, its rate increased tenfold. This had to work. It had to. He pressed a button. Still nothing.

Again.   
Not a sound. 

He was almost ready to give up. He slammed the phone back in the receiver in frustration. Then, he realized:

Not a sound. No dial tone.   
It wasn't necessarily broken, just dead. He could fix that. Pete let out a sigh of relief. Get another cable, plug it in, give it a jumpstart. Easy.   
But there was another problem. A slightly bigger one. This room did not seem to have any cord or plugs, other than the one the phone was currently plugged into. His breathing shortened again. He let out air in short, rapid spouts. 

If he was going to get this phone to work, he would have to go back out there.   
Back out into the exposed hallway, where he could run into Patrick at any second.   
He didn't have a choice. They needed help. This was the first opportunity he had to use a phone, and it might very well be his last. He couldn't throw this chance away.   
Still breathing hard, Pete unplugged the phone from the wall and wrapped the wires around the receiver. Without too much hesitation, he plunged out into the hall. 

It was silent. It was as if he were the only person there. Every footstep seemed to echo throughout the entirety of the hospital. He winced. There was no way he could do this without drawing attention to himself. Almost immediately, he decided he didn't care.   
He ran.   
Pete wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. He knew he needed a way to jumpstart the power in the phone, but he didn't know where to do that. A room with some sort of control board maybe? When a fuse blows out, you go to the circuit board. Usually, especially in large establishments like this one, that is the center of electricity, where one might go to charge something. If the state of the rest of this hospital was anything to go by, there would be a tangled mass of cables in that room.   
That's where he would start. 

And maybe he'd fix the lights while he was down there. They were still flickering something awful as he ran. They flashed on and off rapidly. The sun must have set fast. When the lights were off, he couldn't see anything. His heart would skip a beat every time he rounded a corner. He had no way of knowing if someone was down that hall.   
Finally, he found it. A small, closet-sized room, with one wall covered in a mass of wires, just as he's suspected. And he hadn't been caught. 

Pete sunk to his knees and, with shaking hands, began plugging in the receiver to random wires. He didn't have the mindset for this sort of thing, and especially not in his current situation. After a couple of futile minutes of experimentation, he got a dial tone. He punched in the number a quickly as his frantic hands allowed. There were already tears forming in his eyes. 

"Nine one one, what's your emergency?" 

He'd really done it. A woman's voice. One that didn't seem hostile. Almost friendly. It had been too long since he had met a polite or caring person. 

"Hello?" 

He snapped out of it. "You need to help me." He said hoarsely, clutching the device tightly against his face. His voice shook almost in-comprehensively. "Us, help us."

"Sir, can you tell me what's happening?"

"I'm...we're...my friends and i are in a hospital, Linda Vista Community." He stammered uncontrollably. "We need-"

"If you're in a hospital?" She asked suspiciously. 

"Well, yes, but-"

"Then why did you call nine one one?"

"No, I mean, it's not-"

"Son, there are people with actual emergencies. If you have a problem talk to you doctor. I'm going to hang up now."

"No wait!" Pete shouted, not thinking or caring about any consequences that might cause. "I'm not a psycho patient! It's abandoned, the hospital is abandoned." He tried to explain, his voice still raised and wavering. "We're stuck in here with..."   
He trailed off. With what? His best friend, who is actually a great guy, but who has been turned into a crazy, demon, killing machine? Something told him that wouldn't go over all that well.   
"With a psycho murderer." He finished. 

He wanted to smack himself. No. That wasn't right. He wasn't really. But he hadn't been able to think of anything else. This might, at least, get the lady to send someone. But still, he felt guilty. Patrick was his friend, and none of this was his fault.   
"Please. We need help." He muttered desperately, voice cracking. 

The woman on the line seemed to consider it. A silence lasted for what felt like an eternity. Then

"There are men on their way. Quiet down. Remain calm. We're coming to help."

The line went flat. The phone slipped easily from Pete's shaking hands and clattered onto the floor. He let out a dry sob, almost not even daring to let himself believe it. 

Help was on its way. 

-

Joe's eyes scanned nervously around the room. His heart was beating out of his chest. His breathing was deep and labored. This was bad. It was very bad. Not only were the three of them virtually trapped in a hastily abandoned hospital, but they were trapped in said hospital with the possessed demon version of their friend. Oh, and they were separated. He would have preferred it if the other boys were with him, yet he understood why they had to split up. It just made him uncomfortable. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to go horribly wrong. His skin crawled in the silence that seemed to permeate the vastness of the entire building. He was alone. 

The room he was in seemed to be some sort of old examination room, like one that might be found in a clinic, but larger. In the center sat a dark and isolated examination table. The far wall was covered by a row of wooden cabinets that would have probably been used for small medical supplies, like gloves or syringes, while next to it there were larger ones that could have been used to store larger things, such as lab coats. A window shielded by blinds adorned the top of the wall. On the right side of the room, there was another door that probably led to an adjoined room, or perhaps even another hall way. Other than that, the room was empty. Nothing was on the floors. The counters were mostly clear. It was the neatest room he'd seen so far. That concerned him. Why had this room seemingly been left alone?

Joe took a hot second to contemplate what to do next. He needed some sort of plan. The room was big and open, with maybe some ways to hide, but that wasn't his priority. He was in a building with a monster. His priority was to escape.   
He felt a pang of guilt. This was Patrick he was talking about. He was his friend. It bothered him how easily the word 'monster' had popped up. Yet, part of him could acknowledge that the word fit. Sure, it was Patrick, but, then again, was it really? These girls had done something to fuck with his brain, and it had changed him. He was so different. The guilty part of him could make the argument that he was still in there, that they could still change him back, help him, but the other part wasn't concerned about that. It was concerned about right in that moment and, as much as it hurt him to think, the idea of being near this pseudo-Patrick scared him shitless. 

So he had to get out. There was no doubt in his mind. The three of them had taken a straight shot down that hallway, and Joe had broken off into a room first. If this thing somehow chose the right hall to search, Joe would be the first one he found. He needed to escape before it was too late. 

He ran for the other door across the room. It was similar size and build to the one he had just entered from. Maybe it could lead him out of the building, through a back door, or something of that nature. At least, it would get him out of this room, buy him some time. There was only one minor problem:

the door was locked.   
His heart beat even harder. No. No, it couldn't be locked. That would not be fair. He tried the handle again, rattling it almost to its breaking point. The door didn't budge. In frustration, he pounded his fist against the door. The sound echoed through the empty room, but he didn't care. What had he done to deserve this?

Wait. Maybe hope wasn't lost. The window. It was big enough to climb through. He was on the first floor. He could crawl through and immediately be out. It was even better than the door. He dashed across the linoleum floors. The window was about the height of his head. Searching for some sort of latch or lever to get it open, his hands pushed through the thick canvas blinds, rattling them like silent wind chimes. His fingers ran along all four edges of the frame. They found nothing. He began to sweat again. Joe pushed hard on the window, hoping against hope that it might just open. No luck. The glass didn't budge. He slapped the window, shouting. 

Okay. Okay, so the window was a no-go. Maybe, maybe the door wasn't really locked. Yes, maybe it had just been jammed, and he hadn't pushed on it the right way. He raced back to the door, feet sliding over the tiles. His hand went to the door handle. He wrestled with it again. And then again. It wasn't budging. It wasn't jammed. It was locked. The guitarist banged his hand repeatedly against the door. He yelled in anger and frustration. This wasn't fair. And every passing moment he became more terrified. 

Maybe...maybe there was something that could help him actually in the cabinets. He hadn't checked. But if there was something sharp that could be used to defend himself, or even pick a lock, that would be helpful. Joe felt himself flying back across the room. He threw open the cabinet doors and began frantically rummaging through them. His fingers ran across some gauze and cloth and gloves, but nothing sharp. Nothing currently useful. He was stuck. He slammed the doors and stormed back to the center of the room. 

"Dammit!" He shouted, ramming his fist against the examination chair. 

He hit the chair again multiple times, a fresh "dammit" each time his hand made contact. The useless cushions became displaced. His hand grew sore, his voice raw. He was acting like a five-year old, throwing a temper tantrum, and he knew it. However, he also knew the only thing that would come of it was maybe Not-Patrick would find him quicker. His voice faded.

Joe stood motionless in the center of the room. His breath was deep, rapid and unsteady. He was totally fucked. The guitarist ran his finger through his curly hair, eyes wide, gulping for air. He had no more ideas. He was just a sitting duck, waiting to be shot down. He was stuck; trapped in that god-forsaken exam room. There just wasn't a way-

Shit.   
SHIT. 

He saw him. Through the small glass opening in the door, Joe saw Patrick. His clothes were coated in dry blood, his hair matted and damp. He froze. He couldn't move. He knew he had to run, to hide, but he couldn't get his limbs to move. From the back, it looked so much like the singer he knew so well. But he knew from the front...

He didn't know what had changed, what had alerted the being to his presence, but in that small instant, Patrick's head snapped in his direction. For the first time, he made eye-contact with the demon. The two men stared at each other, neither with a sense of recognition. 

Those eyes. They weren't ever going to leave his mind. 

The yellow, so unnaturally placed upon his friend's face, broke Joe from his trance. He had to move. It was probably too late now, but it wasn't worse than just standing unarmed in the center of the room. He glanced at the larger cabinets. His heart shook as he ran for them. Surprisingly, they were unlocked. However, Joe didn't have time to appreciate that too fully. He could hear Patrick leisurely making his way to the exam room, even over the sound of his own beating heart. The cabinet was just his size. He ducked into it, pulling his knees to his chest, closing the door and waiting. His breath was shaky. He knew this wouldn't do anything. Patrick had seen him. 

The door creaked open. Joe's heart was in his throat. He held his breath. He heard Patrick making his way across the room, his footfall heavier than normal. He heard him grunting and sniffing like some rabid wild animal. This wasn't his friend.   
The large cabinets behind him were thrown open. Joe winced and pressed himself against the wall. Any moment now...  
The doors clattered closed. Patrick grunted and stopped moving right outside Joe's cabinet. He sniffed the air. He could feel his breath through the cracks in the door, see the glow of his yellow eyes. Joe braced himself. 

Patrick swung the door open, and grabbed Joe by the shoulder of his coat. Joe rammed out into him, causing the both of them to topple onto the floor. He scrambled back to his feet and ran to the other side of the exam chair. Patrick jumped up and stared at him for a second, snarling. Then, without warning, he bolted towards Joe, taking a sharp turn around the chair, sharper than Joe thought possible. Joe sprinted away, the two of them running almost comically in a circle around the chair. While running, Joe spotted a loose cord lying beneath it. He grabbed it, holding it tightly between his hands in front of himself. Wielding it like a (poorly handled) whip, Joe wildly swung the rope in Patrick's direction. It missed completely. The only thing that had been accomplished was that he now seemed angrier.   
Joe gulped and grit his teeth as Patrick leapt at him, his hand on Joe's clenched fist as he started pushing him towards the chair. 

The man was 5'4". Even if he was possessed by some kind of demon or something, Joe was the tallest of the four. He should have been able to easily overpower him.   
Keyword being should. 

The being contained more strength than was physically possible. He wrestled Joe, facing up, onto the chair. Patrick wrapped his hook around the cord and yanked it from his hands. He kicked and struggled, but his former friend held fast. Leaning over him, Patrick began furiously wrapping the cord tightly around Joe's neck.   
He clawed desperately at the coils, gasping for breath, but the creature had him in some sort of headlock, pulling the cord tighter and tighter. 

Joe wheezed, desperate for air. "Patrick." He choked through a crushed windpipe. He was going to die.   
"Patrick. Please."

Everything went dark. 

-

The rage was fading. Patrick wasn't sure why, but his mind was his again. His breath was fast and shallow. He was staring at Pete and Andy. He had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there, but the two of them were horrified. Breath becoming a little faster, he turned his head to the side.   
Joe. He was laying, motionless of the examination chair. His face slack, eyes wide, his mouth hanging open. A thick black cord was wound tightly around his neck. 

Patrick stumbled backwards involuntarily. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly. He looked down at his hands, then back at his friend. 

"I-... I di-" His voice broke.He couldn't look anymore. This was his fault. He'd done this.   
Tears formed in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. His hand covered his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut. Is this what he was now? A cold-blooded murderer? His friend was dead because of him. Patrick sunk to his knees, sobs racking his body. 

Across the room, Andy ran over alongside Joe. Desperately, he checked his pulse, checked for breath. There was nothing. He let out a dry sob before falling over Joe's chest, holding his body tightly. 

Pete didn't move. He was frozen. His lips were parted slightly, his eyes full of fear and concern. He was staring at Patrick.

The room was suddenly doused in alternating red and blue lights. Sirens wailed outside. The three men looked towards the window. They heard voices outside. 

"Patrick." Pete's voice was short and raspy. "You need to run."

Patrick's eyes were read and puffy as he raised his head to look at him. Pete avoided his gaze. What was he talking about?

"The police will find us any second." Pete continued. You can't be here."

"Why not?" His voice sounded hollow and dead, even to his own ears. 

"Patrick," Pete sighed, voice full of pity, yet hesitated before continuing softly, "You know that wasn't you."

Patrick's gaze shifted back to the floor. He could feel the anxious stares of both of the boys on him. 

"Wasn't it?" He asked, trying to keep his tone flat through the tears that had begun flowing again. He couldn't stop them. His mind was still in shock. No part of him was working, he couldn't think straight. But he knew he couldn't just hide from this. He was a murderer. He wasn't going to get away with it. 

"It wasn't you." Pete repeated in a low voice, trying to keep his tone calm. "You weren't in control."

"How do you know?" Patrick retorted, cocking his head to the side. The question seemed to take Pete by surprise. He suddenly jumped to his feet and marched deliberately towards him.  
"How do you know i won't kill, too?" He asked furiously, voice infused with tears.   
Pete backed up against the wall. Andy moved to protect him. 

Patrick deflated, practically sinking into himself. "See?" His voice was small. "You're terrified of me. And you're right to be."

Pete and Andy stared at him apologetically. "Patrick-"

Patrick sunk to the floor. "I don't deserve to escape this. It's safer for everyone if i'm out of the picture."

"No, we can fix this-"

"Fix this?!" Patrick shouted.   
Pete shrunk away again in fear.   
"Joe is dead! Joe is dead, and it's my fault! What part of that can be fixed?!"

"Hey!" Came a voice outside the door. "Police! I heard shouting in here. We're coming in!"

"I'm sorry, Pete." Patrick's voice was low as he got up onto his knees and put his hands behind his head as the door swung open.


	8. Death Valley

> **We're gonna die, it's just a matter of time. Hard times come, good times go.**

"Forward."

*Flash*

"Okay, now turn to the side."

*Flash*

Patrick slowly blinked the bright lights out of his eyes. The ID sign was slippery in his sweaty palm. It was difficult to keep it upright with only one hand. I slid around beneath the hook. His face was an emotionless slate. He was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, stained with dried tears. Blood and dirt still clung to his face. They hadn't allowed him to clean himself up. They had gone directly from the hospital to the station, to mugshots. Not that he was complaining. He hadn't said a word to these people. He hadn't opened his mouth since his apology to Pete. He hoped the two of them were okay. They probably hated him. They were right to. He hated himself. 

"Okay let's move." The chief took the sign and grasped Patrick's shoulder tightly, leading him away from the camera.   
"Fingerprints." He said in explanation. 

They came upon a desk with a small scanner on the counter. His right hand was easy. He let his fingers fall across the plate, and the prints were recorded. Then it was time for his left hand. Everyone in the room, Patrick included, glanced at the hook. 

"Um... Do we really have to do both hands?" The officer behind the desk asked uncertainly. 

"Of course!" The chief scoffed incredulously. "Get that hook off him."

Patrick blanched. Was he serious?

"You... you want us to take the prints of his severed wrist, sir?" The officer said slowly. 

"Yes, obviously." The chief rolled his eyes. "Now, hurry up. We haven't got all day."

Patrick's eyes widened in terror as the officer grabbed ahold of the hook and pulled. He yelped. The hook didn't come off and it hurt like hell. He pulled again, to no avail. 

"Damn." The officer whistled. "That's really on there."

"Don't just stand there." The chief shouted. "Get it off!"

"Okay, sir." He sighed. 

With both hands he gripped the hook and yanked as hard as he could. Patrick's functioning hand went to his wrist. He cried out in agony. There was so much pain. He didn't know what had been done to get it on there, but it was efficient. He tried to pull away, but the chief had to hold him in place. With a sickening pop! the hook came off his arm. The skin on his wrist was red and raw, and the removal of the hook cause beads on blood to appear again. With tears in his eyes, Patrick's wrist was dragged across the scanner, leaving a small trail of blood behind. The officer glanced at it in mild disgust. 

"Get yourself cleaned up." The chief told Patrick as he pulled him away. "You smell like shit."

Patrick didn't say anything.   
The showers were small and uncomfortable, like the ones you might find in a pubic pool, with grimy walls, and only a curtain separating you from the outside. He could hear the chief standing right on the other side. He did not know what he'd done to deserve his special attention. It probably wasn't normal for the chief of the station to be chaperone to whoever comes in. He turned on the water.   
He hadn't had a shower in a while. The water ran through his hair, leaving streaks of clean skin on his face. It was red as it hit the ground. It stung his arm like nobody's business, but he'd gotten used to ignoring it. He was staring to feel more like himself. The layer of blood and dirt was gone, his hair clean, and, for now at least, his mind was his own. 

"Time's up." The chief rapped his knuckled against the wall. "Get dressed. Your lawyer's here. He wants to talk." 

Of course he did. Patrick turned the water off.  
He walked into the doorway a room adorned in an orange jumpsuit that was a little too big for him. It hung loosely on his shoulders and bunched up around his ankles. His wrist was covered with a plastic brace-type contraption. It was surprisingly helpful. An older man sat at the table. The chief shoved the singer in and handcuffed him to the table. 

"You can leave." The lawyer nodded at the chief, who got a sour look on his face, but obliged. They were alone.   
"Mr. Stump, I am Mr. Jameson." He held out his hand. 

"Patrick," Patrick picked up his hand as far as the cuffs would let him and shook the lawyer's hand. He could see in his eyes how much he didn't want to be here. State lawyers like this seemed often to feel that way. 

"I'm here to discuss your case."

"There's no case to discuss." Patrick informed him. "I killed him. It's my fault. That's all there is to it."

Jameson sighed. "I understand where you're coming from-"

"I doubt it." Patrick laughed humorlessly. "You ever killed your best friend?"

"So you feel regret?" Jameson latched on. 

"Of course."

"So what made you do it in the first place?"

"I didn't want to." Patrick promised. "I didn't mean to."

"So it was an accident?" 

"No." He insisted firmly. 

Jameson waited for him to elaborate. He didn't oblige him.   
"And?"

"And nothing."

"Mr. Stump, I cannot help you if you do not help me help you."

"I don't want your help, i'm sorry." Patrick told him. "I'm guilty. That's all there is to it."

Jameson stared at him. Neither of them said anything for a moment. He smacked his lips. "Fine. But i'll be back tomorrow if you change your mind." He grabbed his briefcase and started out the door. 

"I won't." Patrick said. 

He sighed and walked out. Immediately the chief was there. He unlocked him from the table, but it arms didn't stay free for long. The chief, with the (reluctant) assistance of two other cops shackled his wrists and places elaborate chains around his ankles. 

"We're just taking him to his cell." One of them mumbled as he locked the cuffs. "Is this really necessary?"

Probably not, Patrick figured, but this guy seemed intent on making this as hard and uncomfortable as possible for him. He wasn't sure exactly why, but he wasn't mad. In his mind, he deserved it.   
With every step he made, the rattling of chains echoed through the hall. His feet were close together; his steps were small and short. The two cops escorted him down the hall, the chief's grip on his arm considerably tighter than the other officer's. The hall was lined with holding cells, all of which were empty. He was the only one there. They took him into the cell at the head of the corridor, and once they were there, it took a good five minutes to unlock him. The officer then disappeared back into the office, but the chief slowly locked the door and turned to face him. 

"If i hear one peep out of you, boy," he warned. 

Patrick blinked and sat down on the bench. The chief reluctantly walked away.   
Once he was alone, he began pacing. There was a lot to think about. He knew what this was about. Well, sort of. He changed and he now knew why. He wasn't certain at first, but after the hospital, he was sure.   
He remembered the day before. He and Foxes had picked up all the boys and she had brought them to Linda Vista. That much they already knew. What they didn't know was what happened next. 

The car was stopped in the grass. Patrick was glancing out the side window at the hospital. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that he couldn't quite explain, but he did not want to go into that building. He was thinking about telling Foxes to drive to the next hospital, that they could wait, but then he heard it. At first he thought he was just imagining it, but it was too real. A snake, hissing. He turned his head in alarm towards the sound.   
The snake from the dinner. It was in the car, curling around the steering wheel and along the dashboard. How had it gotten in here? He looked at Foxes, who was not making any sort of audible reaction. He jumped back when he saw her. Her large doe-eyes were black, solid black, like the demons on that one CW show.   
Breathing hard, he scrambled to unlock the door, anything to get out of there, but it was stuck. As he struggled, Foxes, or whatever she was, turned up the dial on the radio. It wasn't loud, but it was enough. His arms went up to cover his ears. He could feel the sound pushing through, coursing through his veins. He rocked back and forth in the seat, eyes and teeth clenched. Please, god, not again. But he didn't remember anything else until...

It was the music. He knew it was. The stereo in the woods, the car radio; it all came back to the same thing. He didn't know how the vixens had done it, but every time he heard music, that thing took over.   
He had to tell Pete and Andy. He wanted to tell them his suspicions in the truck, but he hadn't, since Foxes was there. Now, he didn't think he'd get a chance. He knew they wouldn't want to see him, much less listen to anything he had to say, but he wanted to try. To help in whatever way he still could.   
But no one came. He paced the cell for hours without seeing anyone. Eventually, he sat back down, miserable. There was no one. He was alone. 

-

Andy sat back in the cold metal chair. Pete was next to him, arms crossed against the table, head resting on them. When the police had arrested Patrick, the two of them had been brought in for questioning. However, that had been hours ago, and they had yet to see anyone. Andy let out a slow slur of breath. He and Pete had not even been given the chance to clean up yet. Their clothes were still a mess, their faces still stained with blood. He had to hope whoever came in wasn't too squeamish.   
The room was small and dark. There was a dim light hanging above the table, and a soft orange light emanating from between the blinds of the door and the white light above the table. The room was empty except for the two chairs and the table. A pair of handcuffs, currently not in use, laid skewed on its surface. A large mirror adorned the far wall. No doubt someone was back there now, observing them, seeing if they were going to discuss anything.   
So far they hadn't. It wasn't that they didn't have anything to say, more just that they didn't have anything to say there. And certainly not when they were going to have to relive the whole ordeal for some officer in questioning. You know, if one ever showed.   
However, it was not as if that wasn't something they wanted to do. Patrick wasn't technically guilty. It was all the girls. There was no way the blame would be off of him if he and Pete didn't advocate for him.   
Honestly, Andy wasn't entirely sure what he would say. None of this had made all that much since to him. He wasn't sure why the vixens had done all they had done. It couldn't all be about that goddamn briefcase, could it? And he had absolutely no idea what had happened to Patrick. The man had strangled his friend to death. There was no way to explain that, but he knew they would try.   
He had to keep reminding himself that it wasn't really him, that of course Patrick hadn't wanted any of this to happen, but it was hard. It was still Patrick's body. It was easier to think he'd gone crazy instead of trying to rationalize that a cult of psycho women had some how figured out a way to temporarily alter his brain chemistry. But Andy knew the truth. He'd seen his eyes. They hadn't been Patrick's.   
He'd probably let Pete do most of the talking.  
Andy was worried about Pete, though. He was taking all this really hard. It was common knowledge that Pete and Patrick were closest, and by now he had probably found some way to blame this all on himself. Andy didn't think it was, and he knew for certain Patrick didn't either, but Pete was like that. He would be beating himself up over this, telling himself he could have saved Joe, he could have found a way to fix whatever ha been done to Patrick. Of course he couldn't have. He had no way of knowing this would happen. None of them could have.   
Not that this was a breeze for Andy. He was friends with Patrick too, and he and Joe were... had been sort of the underdogs of the band almost. They were tight. The only difference was Andy knew he did everything he could. He was upset, but he wasn't guilty. 

"Pete." Andy muttered, still weary of the fact that they were probably being watched. 

"Yeah?" Pete murmured back, not moving his head from his hands. 

"You know this isn't your fault." He tried.   
Pete didn't say anything.

Andy leaned forward, closer to how Pete was sitting. "There was no way you could have predicted-"

"Thanks Andy." His friend's dark eyes bore into his, begging him to stop. 

He sighed silently and stopped talking. The drummer sat back against the back of the chair. Pete's forehead went back on the table.   
Andy head footsteps approaching outside the door. Finally. 

"Pete." He grabbed Pete's arm. Pete glanced at him, then at the opening door. The two men eyed the newcomer. He was a tall, buff man with dark skin and short hair. He eyed them suspiciously as he walked slowly and confidently to the other side of the table. He held himself straight and composed, with his chest out, like he had a high opinion of himself. He was the kind of guy who refused to take any shit from anybody and already had a strong opinion about everyone he met.   
'This will be great.' Andy thought to himself, groaning internally. 

"Gentlemen," he said in greeting. His voice was deep and to-the-point. Pete and Andy stared at him. "I'm Detective Inspector Morris." he continued to announce proudly. "Now how about the two of you tell me what the hell is going on. Details, details. I need to know how this started."

The two men glanced at each other. Where do you start?

"Excuse me!" Morris exclaimed after about .05 seconds of silence. "Did i fucking stutter?! Sometime today boys, let's go."

"We'd just finished our tour." Andy supplied quickly. "We'd only arrived in Chicago earlier that morning."

"Yeah, Andy and I, and a few others went out." Pete continued. "Patrick wasn't feeling well, so he went straight home."

"I can't speak for what exactly happened to Patrick or to...to Joe, but the result was the same: the four of us were kidnapped by this crazy cult of women." Andy finished. 

"Every detail is important." The detective snapped. 

"Okay, i was pushed into a van and hit on the head-"

"And i was drugged with a syringe in my neck."

Silently, they had agreed to say nothing about the briefcase. That would just be more questions they wouldn't want to answer. And Andy suspected they weren't going to bring up the dinner either. 

"You mentioned a crazy cult of women." Morris repeated. "Elaborate."

"We don't know anything about them." Pete insisted. "They kidnapped us and turned our singer into a demon. That's all we got."

"I think you might have skipped something." Morris raised an eyebrow. 

"I don't know how." Pete stammered, frustrated. "I don't know how they did what they did to him. There were wires and machines connected to his head and I...we...-"

"They had us in an abandoned hospital for a while, then drove us in the back of a van into a park where they tried to burn us to death." Andy continued quickly, skipping over some things.

"Yeah, but we escaped the fire using the hook on 'Trick's hand-" Pete picked up, motioning wildly with his hands. 

"But were attacked by a group of biker kids working for the women's cult-"

"Then were picked up by a girl who went by Foxes, in a red pickup truck, who drove us to the hospital-"

"But she obviously turned out being evil and somehow caused Patrick to revert back to being a demon,-"

"So he chased us into the hospital, which turned out to be abandoned,-"

"And so we split up and hid."

"That's the back story." Pete summed up. 

The inspector had been watching them closely, following their words back and forth between the two men like he was watching a tennis match. When they finished, he seemed skeptical, but refrained, for some reason. 

"So, in Linda Vista, you were...?"

"In a medicine closet, trying to fix myself up." Andy finished for him. 

"And you?"

"Calling you." Pete answered. 

"And did you see the murder?"

"We got there just as he...finished." Pete told him. 

"Both of you?"

They nodded.   
Andy remembered everything about that moment. He had been just behind Pete barreling down the hallway. A horrible feeling had been rising in his gut until he couldn't stand it anymore. His bandages had held nicely as he ran. He and Pete heard noises and burst into the exam room, but they were too late. Joe was already motionless in the center of the room. Patrick, the demon, ducked behind the chair, eyes glowing fiercely, a deep growling sound in the back of his throat. The two of them froze and started to back away, but even as Patrick moved towards them, the yellow in his eyes had faded back to their original blue. 

"So what caused you to leave the rooms you were in?" Morris asked, shaking him from his thoughts. 

"I heard something." Pete said. 

"Yeah, doors slamming." Andy agreed, trying to make it sound at all rational.

"You heard doors slamming, and figured that it was safe to stop hiding?" Morris blinked. 

"No, of course not." Pete shook his head. "It was more like...well, i had this feeling-"

"That you're friend was going to kill your other friend?" The detective asked with raised eyebrows. 

"Well, no, but-" Pete stopped. Morris was starring at them with a menacing, accusatory expression. "You don't believe us, do you." He guessed. 

His expression didn't change.

"Look man, i swear, we're telling the tru-"  
Morris slammed his palms against the table. "My ass!" He shouted. "You two must think i'm a goddamn idiot!"

Pete and Andy involuntarily scooted backwards, away from him. There was no need to yell. 

"Here's what i know: you two and your band disappear off the face of the earth. You're not at home, you're not answering your phones. Your damn producers are calling the Chicago PD every five minutes to see if they have any leads. For a solid week this happens. Suddenly you show up in an abandoned hospital in California, where your singer decided to up and strangle your guitarist, and you in here trying to tell me it was an underground cult of girls with fancy machines who turned him into a fucking demon?!" His arm bent at the elbow and he pointed a finger into Pete's and Andy's face. "I understand that the two if you want to protect your friend, but now he's a murderer. He's already admitted to it, and he didn't tell us no stories about girls. Now you two had better start telling the truth or i'm gonna have to lock both you and your lying asses up for contempt."

Andy and Pete glanced at each other. What were they supposed to do? Lie now? Andy wasn't sure. He knew they needed help, but this guy clearly wasn't going to back them up on anything. The only thing they could do now was try not to make this guy angrier. 

Apparently, Pete didn't get the memo.   
"Don't you have to be in court to be found in c-"

"Are you being smart with me boy!?" Mortis roared. 

Andy let out a quiet sigh.   
Apparently, not quiet enough. The inspector swept his hands across the table, sending a file and a cup half full of coffee crashing onto the floor. 

"I don't have time for your games!" He yelled at them. "I could have you both arrested on suspicion of murder! You come in here, covered in blood and try to up and tell me lies. And you think i'm stupid."

"We don't-" Pete started before Andy could stop him. 

"Shut your goddamn mouth!" He screeched, flinging his chair across the small room. "I am talking. Do you not see me talking? I am discussing a murder charge here! Why do i even bother-"

"Inspector, we didn't-"

"Oh, my god," he snapped, "interrupt me again. I dare you. I fucking dare you." Pete wisely kept his mouth closed. "That's right. Now be a good little bitch and stay like that. Listen, there is no way in hell a cult of women is operating under our noses, kidnapping bands. That's just fucking ridiculous. If you're going to lie to protect your homicidal friend, you're gonna have to try harder than that." 

Morris stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Slowly, Pete lowered his head back to the table. Andy's chin slid down to his chest.   
That had gone about as well as he had expected. They'd successfully pissed off their one chance of getting out of this. They definitely could not count on the police now.   
A soft 'whoosh' caught his attention. A note had been slipped under the door.   
Pete saw it before he did. He scooped down and grabbed it holding it out over the table so they could both see. 

"I wear the crown, but am no princess." He read allowed. Next to the inscription was a crown above a trapezoid, like Patrick's tattoo. "What the fuck does that mean?" Pete muttered, flipping the paper around in his fingers. On the back was an address: 

1515 Broadway #508  
Death Valley, CA

The men glanced at each other.   
"I guess we can go find out." Andy answered.   
•••  
After roughly another hour of sitting around doing nothing, the two of them were offered a chance to clean up and leave. They graciously accepted both offers.   
Andy mentioned that he wanted to talk to Patrick, and Pete agreed. They hadn't heard from him since the arrest, and wanted to know how he was doing. But when Pete had tried to ask if they could see him, the chief shut him down immediately. He was uncommonly firm about it. Under no circumstances was anyone allowed to see him.   
Walking dejectedly out of the precinct, finally clean, the two boys set off to their mystery address. Pete had dared to ask the guy at the front desk general directions to Broadway and found that it was only a few blocks away. As they did not have any mode of transportation other than their feet, this was quite fortunate. The California sun was sweltering hot. It was seconds before they were drenched in sweat, especially beneath their jackets.   
They easily found the building they were looking for. It was tall and brown and blended in with the surrounding buildings. It looked empty, like it hadn't been used or lived in in years. Small wooden letters reading 1515 marked the door. The men approached the building apprehensively. 

"You know," Andy cautioned. "The last time we walked into an abandoned building..."

"What choice do we have?" Pete asked. But he did not seem anxious to explore the venue either. 

"We could just not?" Andy suggested. "Walk away, pretend we never got that note."

"Walk away and go where?" Pete asked. "Home?"

They both knew that wasn't an option. The only thing to do was keep moving forward. Together, they took a deep breath, nodded, and walked through the front door.   
The inside was just as dingy as the outside. The walls were stained and peeling. It was dark; the only light sources were the small windows that littered to walls. 

"So now where?" Andy whispered. Even though his normally soft voice was quiet, his words echoed around the cavernous room. 

"Room 508, i guess." Pete replied. "We should try the fifth floor." 

There was an elevator, but it looked more like an abandoned mine shaft than something that people in the land of the living would use. They elected to take the stairs.   
Honestly, the stairs weren't much better. Many of them were crumbling or caved in, and there were lots of them. The building was old, and it's staircase was winding and tall. The two men were panting as they reached the fifth floor. The rooms were clearly marked, and 508 was right down the hall to the left. They stood apprehensively in the doorway. 

"What if it's a trap?" Andy whispered. 

Pete didn't say anything. He slowly walked forwards and turned the knob. The door opened with a long 'creeeaak'. They winced at the noise. Andy followed Pete into the room.   
It was empty. Well, it looked that way on that side of the wall. There was a large wall that ran through the center of the room, and the side with the door was dark and vacant. However, they could see light emanating from behind the walls, accompanied by the dull drones of a television set. They made their way across the empty room and turned the corner. Their eyes widened. 

The room was lit by a long, narrow light adorning the wall, which was yellow and peeling, much like the rest of the building. There was a small tv on a stand in the corner. Under the light was a collage of maps, newspaper clippings, post-its, photographs, yarn; it was just like out of a detective show. Pete and Andy walked further into the room to get a closer look.   
Then they noticed the girl in the corner. She had small black heels on, with black skinny jeans and a leather jacket. Her make-up was dark against her blond hair. She had a patch on her arm. It was decorated with the crossed out music note, like they had seen in the hospital.   
The two of them took a step back as she walked towards them. Even as they watched her, she reached up and yanked the patch off of her arm and let it fall to the floor. 

"I'm not one of them." She announced. 

Andy's eyes widened. "Natalie?" He recognized her. He hadn't seen her in years. What was she doing here?

"Hi Andy." She nodded. "Pete." As she faced him, Andy caught a glimpse of a tattoo on her neck, identical to Patrick's. 

"You two no each other?" Pete asked in surprise. 

"It's been a while." Natalie said cautiously. 

'Yeah, you could say that.' Andy thought. "What are you doing here? Why did you contact us?" He asked aloud. 

"I'm here to help you." She told them. "From the looks of things, you need it."

"We'll take what we can get." Pete shrugged. "Tell us."

"The first thing you have to understand is that this is bigger than just you and your band." She started. "I haven't been working for the Head Bitch as long as many of the other's but i've seen enough to know that this is on a much larger scale." She turned on the television. It was some kind of protest. People were marching, holding up signs with the crossed-out music note. "This is how it started. It was just a couple of protesters."

"What were they protesting?" Andy asked.

"Music. Creativity to be broad, but it narrows down to music. They hate it and everything it stands for. When this Courtney person took over the movement, they disappeared, went underground. They would snatch musicians, and experiment like they did with Patrick. They've been trying to create the perfect monster, one that hates music more than they do and will stop at nothing 'til it's gone."

"That's ridiculous." Pete scoffed. "You can't get rid of music."

"That's what i thought." Natalie said grimly. "But they're efficient. They terrorize anyone who even looks like they might be listening to music. They spend they're free time raiding music stores, breaking instruments and kidnapping musicians. And no one notices them doing it." The picture on the screen changed. A woman in all black with blonde wavy hair stood with her arms outstretched, a megaphone in hand. "That's her. Courtney. The Head Bitch in Charge. She's the mastermind behind all of it. It's happening all over the world," she continued as the picture changed again to show a group of her followers, the vixens. "And this past week has been the worst. You're lucky i found you before they did." She switched the television off. "Patrick may not have been the first they experimented on, but they were hoping he'd be end game. It's bigger than you, but you're at the center."

"Why?" Pete asked agitatedly, and Andy agreed with him. Why them?

"You're the strongest band they know." She said seriously. "They're goal is to get rid of music. If you guys make it through this, everything they do is for nothing. You're the only ones who can save rock and roll."

"Well." Pete said after a moment of stunned silence. "Shit."

"There's more." Natalie continued. "The briefcase. They can't open it. The results would be catastrophic, more than they could possibly realize. You have to get it back."

"Great." Pete nodded. "So, a cult of anti-music groupie girls is trying to eliminate music from the world and we're the only ones that can stop it. Also they have a super dangerous, possibly world-ending item in their possession that we also need to get from them." He summed up. "Am i getting all of this?"

"Unfortunately." Natalie nodded. "But i said i would help, and i'm still going to."

"Well, what do you got?" Andy asked before Pete could have another outburst. 

"The briefcase is priority." She explained. "And i know where it is." She smacked her hand against the wall, pointing at a picture of an old building with a post-it note reading 'Headquarters???' on it. "I'm certain of it now. It's here, on the outskirts of Death Valley. Courtney will have it in her office."

"So we just walk into the Head Bitch's office and take the briefcase and hope no one sees us?" Pete asked. 

"There's a back door to the warehouse." She said. "You can use my key card." 

"You guys have key cards?!" 

"Pete, this is serious."

"Okay, okay." He nodded. "Backdoor. Good idea. So what do we do if we do get spotted?"

"When you get spotted." Natalie corrected. "Courtney hardly ever leaves her office."

"Awesome."

"Come with me." She turned and walked through a doorway on the far wall.   
Pete and Andy exchanged glances and followed her into the dark room.   
She flicked a switch, shrouding the space in a dim light. It was similar to the room they'd just left, but instead of the detective collage, there were three strange weapons. 

"Pete this one is for you." She handed him a spear, with a handle like the neck of a guitar. He examined it closely. 

"Okay. This is fucking awesome." 

She gave him a look and moved on. She took hold of a crossbow with the base of a drum, along with a quiver filled with arrows that looked like sharp drumsticks.   
She handed them to Andy. "Use these well." 

His hand brushed over her's as he took the bow. He let it linger there for a moment. Pete didn't notice. He was busy playing with his new spear, spinning it around like a baton in a parade.   
Suddenly, he stopped. His eyes focused on the remaining weapon hanging on the wall. Andy turned to look at it. It was an axe, and, like Pete's, the handle was the neck of a guitar. The room got quiet. They knew who it was meant for. Natalie looked mournfully at the weapon, then back at the boys. 

"I knew Patrick wouldn't make it this far," she admitted, but i never dreamed..." She trailed off. "I'm so sorry."

"We didn't really get to mourn him, you know?" Andy said softly, still staring at the axe. "The cops immediately just took us to the station. We don't even know where he is."

"I knew what they'd done to Patrick changed him, but i had no idea how far they could get him to go." Natalie said. 

"Pretty goddamn far." Pete muttered. 

"But... He, i don't know, changed back afterwords?" Andy said hopefully. "When we showed up, his eyes went back to normal. Maybe he does have boundaries."

"And for Courtney, that's a problem." Natalie said. "Here's what i know about that. His transformations are triggered by music. Music of any kind. At first, the effects wore off immediately when the music turned off, but obviously they've grown stronger."

"So...we'll just make sure: no more music. Until we figure out how to fix it." Andy offered. 

"I wasn't finished." Natalie said gravely, shaking her head. "It's getting stronger, but not fast enough for them. They've been working on a way to make his transformation permanent. And they just figured it out."

"We have to stop them!" Pete exclaimed. "We can't let them get to him! We can break him out, hide out somewhere until-"

"It's too late." She told him. "They'll have got to him by now."  
The boys fell silent.

"He'll be there you know." She continued softly. "At Headquarters. but he won't be your friend anymore."

"When do we leave?" Pete asked after a moment. His voice was level, but strained. 

"As soon as possible." She said quickly. "The sooner the briefcase is out of their hands, the better."

"Then we should go." Pete said. "C'mon Andy. Let's get our briefcase back." He walked swiftly out of the room. 

Andy looked wistfully at Natalie, who took his hand. 

"Please be careful." She whispered. 

He smiled reassuringly, then went to follow Pete, keeping hold of her hand as long as he could.   
He rushed to catch up with Pete, who was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at them with apprehension. 

"So how do you know her?" Pete asked. He seemed reluctant to brave the stairs again. 

"We dated high school." Andy shrugged. 

"Why did you break it off?"

"I didn't." He realized. "We went different ways after senior year and that was that."

"Too bad." Pete sympathized. "She still seems to like you."

"You're right!" Andy gasped. "Hold this." He handed his his quiver and bow. "There's something i need to do."

Andy turned and ran back into the room before Pete could react. Natalie was standing in front of the collaged wall, staring at the pictures. She turned as he came rushing in from around the corner. Without saying a word, he strode across the room, grabbed her waist, and pulled her into a deep kiss.   
He was beyond pleased when she didn't pull away. That would have been awkward. But no. He felt her arms wrap around his shoulders, her eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. He had missed her. He pulled away slowly, resting his forehead against her's, so that their noses were touching. 

"Thank you." He whispered. "For everything."

Then, he turned and ran back out to Pete. They had work to do. 

-

He heard footsteps down the hallway. Possibly more than one person. They were moving fast. There was the rattle of keys. His cell door creaked open. Patrick raised his head, not moving from the bench he was sitting on. It was the chief. He strode swiftly through the open door over to Patrick and grabbed his arm. 

"Let's go, Stump." He said roughly, with no other explanation. 

"Go where?" Patrick murmured, trying to get his footing. The chief was pulling on him very roughly and very fast. He must be in a hurry. Patrick looked out into the hallway. 

"No." He gasped. They couldn't be here. Not here. Not now. He tried to move his feet out in front of him to stop moving forward, but the chief held fast. He was stronger than Patrick was.   
"No!" He exclaimed again. He put out his arms as they reached the doorway, trying to do whatever he could to stop from exiting the cell. 

"Hello Patrick, darling." 

"Alex." He gulped. He jumped back, practically clinging to the officer. 

He hadn't seen her since before they had changed him. She looked exactly the same. Her hair dark, her make-up severe, her attire minimal. He knew he didn't. He didn't even feel like the same person anymore.   
He shuddered. The vixen stood in the hallway alongside her partner, the two of them staring expectantly at him. The hook hung loosely in her fingers. 

"You've been a very naughty boy. What were you thinking, running away like that?" She scolded in a condescending tone. The police chief gave Patrick a hard shove on the shoulder and he collapsed into the girls' arms. "Mommy's gonna have to teach you some manners." Alex hissed into his ear. 

Patrick flinched away from her and the two of them cackled maniacally. 

"Oh, don't be that way darling." She smiled. "You know we punish bad behavior. And you know i don't want to have to punish you."

He gulped, his breath shaky.

"We greatly appreciate your help in securing this little rascal." She said, ruffling Patrick's hair. "I'm sure he was perfectly miserable. We'll be back to properly thank you tonight." She winked seductively at the corrupt lawman. 

He nodded curtly, unable to conceal the smile playing on his thin lips. 

"Please!" Patrick gasped at the officer, as they started dragging him down the hall. He couldn't believe this. "You can't let them take me!" 

He struggled to no avail against the iron grip of the two girls. The chief looked at his shoes upon hearing his plea. 

"Please!" Patrick exclaimed desperately. 

"Stop it, love." Alex demanded. 

"They're evil. I'll hurt someone else. You can't just stand there!"

"She said shut up!" The other vixen yelped. 

She smacked him on the back of the head so hard he blacked out for a second. When he came to, they were dragging him out of the front doors of the station towards a large black van, the same one he had been thrown in a week ago. It was hopeless.   
He was their's again.


	9. Rat-a-Tat

> **Remember me as I was, not as I am.**
> 
>  

"Rise and shine, Cult Capers. Let's put our faith back in mayhem. We are every old, broken toy, born again, and again. As we turn the hype into hope, we silence the noise. We are the splinter under the world's finger nail, as we turn the diamonds back into coal."

The recording device switched off. There was a round of applause around the room. Courtney leaned back in her chair, smiling smugly. 

"That was excellent!" One girl gasped passionately. 

"Of course it was, i wrote it." She snapped. "Now i want this projected over montages, videos, broadcasted to every tv screen across the world. We're going big with these, girls! Keep it up." She waved her hands and the crowd quickly dispersed. 

Maybe 'going big' was a bit of an exaggeration. They had yet to announce their intentions to the world. Right now it was only certain televisions and stereos, all over the planet. They'd expand to mainstream media soon enough. She sat alone in her office, leaning back in her chair, feet crossed up on the desk. She could hear the symphonic smashing of instruments just outside the slightly open door. Rows of her girls stood at tables, taking hammers and mallets and whatever they could find and destroying the instruments. It was glorious. The sounds of the dying objects was bliss, like hundreds of wailing cats. The screamed and creaked pleasantly in her ears.  
Courtney was pleased. Everything was finally falling into place. All of the hard work she'd put into this project and finally, finally, her plans were falling into fruition. To think that only less than two weeks ago they had nothing. She almost laughed at the thought. Now they were on top. They were going to win. Finally.  
Since she was small, she'd known chaos was the answer. She acted up, did things her own way. Her parents thought it was cute when she was small. As a teen, they had sighed and said she'd grow out of it. Well, she hadn't, and she probably wasn't ever going to. And now she was the Head Bitch in Charge. No one knew they existed, and they were changing the world. All this music and creativity and order was poison, set upon the earth to bring forth it's destruction. 

Hmm. That's good. Maybe she should write that down.  
After all, she was a showman. She was the face of the rebellion. These girls, her beloved girls, they looked up to her. She needed to sound prepared on all of her speeches. And she knew how to do so. When Courtney spoke, it was a marvel to watch. Her passion was so vivid, her posture angry, yet confident, her words crisp and clear. She was the ideal figurehead. And now that she was content, they were unstoppable.  
There were many musicians in the world. Most of them, not that talented or known. They had been easy to grab. They were downstairs. All of the missing musicians right here in her little corner of the desert. Ten, at the very least, so far. Still living, that is. From all over the planet, different genres, different races, different musical specialities: singers, guitarists, percussionists; Courtney didn't discriminate. They were all fair game. She'd send her girls after any and all of them. They'd end up here not even knowing what had hit him.  
She wanted people afraid. Afraid to create. Silence was the answer to all the world's problems. Getting the small Start-Ups and such was only the tip of the iceberg. Her main goal had always been the briefcase. It was vital to everything. There would be no achieving "perfect chaos" with it in the hands of the musicians.  
Courtney had known, of course, that those musical types would find the thing long before she or her girls would. And that was okay. Whichever band it was that found it would be the strongest and most capable of them all, hence identifying their biggest threat. Two birds with one stone, so to speak. Weed out the competition and find the briefcase all in one go. But she had only dared to think that such a band as this would find it. It was too surreal, too perfect. Fall Out Boy had always been on her radar. Even if they hadn't been the ones to find the damn thing, they were deserving of special treatment. There were people around the globe who looked up to them. They would always be a beacon of hope to those who knew them. That just wasn't going to work for her. They had to go.  
The timing, too, had been perfect. If the boys had found it even a week earlier, her most prized creation would have been destroyed. The formula still was not ready then, and, if subject to the abstract frequencies, her precious vocalist donning a fedora would be gone, dead, like all the other countless artists subjected to the many test trials she'd run. That's why it's important to have numerous dispensable individuals in an operation such as this. It had always been leading up to him. Even still, it was a miracle it had all worked out in her favor. Not quite everything was in place, but he was a surprisingly strong man, thank god. He wanted to survive, and the process functioned better than they could have imagined. It wasn't even two weeks later, and one of them was dead.  
There was, of course, room for some much-needed modifications and improvements, but that's why they had gone and fetched their little singer back. Unfortunately, the effects weren't lasting as long as they would have liked, originally fading as soon as the music ended. Naturally, the transformation was set off by music. What better way to make an anti-music monster than to have music be it's creator? The mutation was obviously evolving over time, the effects gradually lasting longer and longer, but they didn't seem willing to last too far through taxing conditions. Her creature had killed one of it's own, but only just. There were still two to go. The boys were stupid, but not that stupid. They would it figure out. There was no way they could trigger more transformations once they did so. She couldn't have her music-hating creation reverting back to the docile, polite, little cardigan-wearing vocalist that was Patrick Stump. She needed it to last longer, preferably permanently. Fortunately, it would be a fairly easy fix, now that they'd seen how it all effects him. It now merely a matter of getting him here.  
She stared at the jar on her desk. In it, perfectly preserved, was his hand. It had been easy to retrieve. They had found it easily at Peter's house in it's not-so-hidden hiding place. It was a beautiful reminder of all they had managed to do so far.  
There was a sudden knock at the door, polite, but insistent, pulling Courtney from her musings. 

"Enter!" She called out lazily. It was Erica. 

"Alex and Mikaela just sent word," she announced breathlessly, struggling to keep the excitement out of her voice. "They have your singer. They are on their way."

"Excellent." Courtney smiled widely. 

"There's more," she continued, her voice not losing it's edge. "The stage is set. We're ready for you."

Her smile deepened extensively. "Now why didn't you open with that?"

"I suppose that's why you're the speaker and not me."

"Damn right." Courtney nodded. "Tell the spotlight to be ready. I'll be out momentarily."

Erica nodded in acknowledgement and ran out through the door. Courtney gave herself a moment to breathe. This was an important moment. Now that things were definitely going their way, it was finally time to come out of the shadows. She was going public. Now was the moment to put their intentions upon the world. It was a big step towards total mayhem. She let her long, pale, spindly fingers wrap around the handle of her megaphone. Her symbol, a circle surrounding a music note, with a line through it, was plastered in bright red and white on it's side.  
It was go time.  
Courtney stepped out of her office, onto the landing at the top of the stairs. Her girls stared up at her, ready to do whatever they needed. The spotlight shone brilliantly in her eyes, but she didn't care. She held her hands up in a V above her head. The cameras started rolling. She brought the megaphone down to her lips. 

"When you look around at the world, what do you see? A place of opportunity? Freedom? Possibilities? Are you sure? Are you really sure that is what you see?  
"No. It's not. You may think it is, but you are mistaken, hoodwinked, like the majority of today's society.  
"The world today is run by power-hungry mongrels itching for their next fix of order and hierarchy. They quench out your individuality and spirit through their rules and laws. They crush your freedom beneath their steel-toed boots.  
"And who is at their side, aiding their ploys, keeping you in line? The musicians. It's all about the music. Music is just an out. It's a temporary relief from the real problems. A way to express yourself in an acceptable, respectable fashion.  
"You think that is a good idea? You think the best way to show your true self is to break into song like you're in a fucking Disney movie? My people, i tell you, say no! There is nothing wrong with expressing your feelings. Pure, raw emotion is best expressed in the true physicality of real life. No more metaphors, no more symbols. Just truth.  
"You may not think it's holding you back, but think. The last time you listened to music, were you sad? Angry? Afterwords, did you feel... better? Yes? And how long did that delusion last? The only real way to fix yourself is to act upon your instincts.  
"Are we going to let then take over?" She demanded making her way down the staircase. The spotlight followed her to the floor. 

"No!" A unified chorus shouted back up at her. Her girls pumped their fists in the air. 

"Are we going to lay down and let those heathens walk all over us like we're a bunch of door mats?"

"No!"

"Are we going let people continue to live, slaves to delusions of the possibility of an 'easier' way?"

"No!"

"Are we going to stand and fight for what we believe in?"

"Yes!"

"Push this suppressing shit out of our lives?"

"Yes!"

"Not back down, no matter what the cost?"

"Yes!"

"Yes! My friends, this is what we were sent here to do! To be free. To be ourselves.  
"But you probably think I'm delusional. You may be thinking "there is not anything wrong with how i deal with my feelings. I do what works for me and it's none of your business". But you're wrong.  
"I have a vision. A vision of a free world. Free to be you, free from the burden that is music. Free from all that the cursed invention represents. You can be part of that vision.  
"I am not alone in this. Join me. Join us. Become a part of this revolution.  
"Or do not. Stay imprisoned by your thoughts and emotions. But fools be warned: anyone who gets in our way, anyone preventing our efforts in any fashion, will not be there for much longer."

The cameras turned off. She let the megaphone drop to her side. She was breathing hard, a light smile playing on her thin lips. Could have been better of course. There was always room for improvements. Her girls, of course, loved it. They went ecstatic as the house lights dimmed. Obviously, much of what she had said had been false. She didn't really give a damn about emotions. She hated music and all it stood for, but she knew she had to appeal to the people, give them a legitament reason to side with her. So many people wanted reasons, needed motives. Soon, that would change. She flicked her short blonde hair over her shoulder. So far so good.  
And things were about to get better. Erica was rushing towards her. 

"Amazing, Chief." She said breathlessly. "Truly inspiring."

"Such a dear, as always, Erica," Courtney cooed. 

"Wasn't too long, either," she continued, "make up for drifting attention spans. Smart."

"It's what i do." Courtney brushed off. "Have you seen Natalie?"

"No, don't think so." She shrugged. "I was just-"

"That's odd." Courtney mused. "She was supposed to-"

"Courtney." Erica interrupted insistently. "Alex and Mikaela. They're here."

"With my little demon?" She asked excitedly. 

"In one piece, as far as I can tell." Erica nodded. "They said they'll be in the side door."

"Well, we mustn't keep them waiting." Courtney nodded. 

It was just one good thing after another.  
She heard them coming long before they entered the warehouse hall. Even over the smashing of instruments, one could hear struggling, grunting; the sounds of someone in distress. It was a frequent sound here. The door was kicked open. Alex and Mikaela entered, keeping their grip on a struggling Patrick Stump.  
Courtney clasped her hands together excitedly and started down the aisle, between the tables to meet them. She didn't exactly know how, but she was so glad they had gotten him back into his other clothes. The bright orange jumpsuit was awful for his pale complexion, and wasn't pretty. If she was going to have a monster, it was going to look good. Though she was slightly miffed by his lack of fedora. Shame. It suited him better than she'd like to admit. The boy seemed terrified of the smashing instruments, flinching away from the as they passed. He writhed and twisted, trying to wretch himself from their grasp, but, naturally, to no avail. Her girls had grips like steel. The five of them, Courtney, Erica, Alex, Mikaela, and the singer, met face to face in the center. He stared at her nervously. 

"I trust you trip wasn't too arduous?" She asked, ignoring him. 

"Not in the slightest." Alex responded. "He was an absolute darling the whole way."

"No doubt." She grabbed the artist's chin, and peered into his blue-green eyes. "He really is a beautiful specimen. Excellent choice on my part."

"You're Courtney," He realized, his eyes widening. 

"You've done your research," She applauded. 

"It doesn't take extensive research to see that you're a bitch."

The girls around them gasped softly, but Courtney just smiled.  
"That's Head Bitch to you." She ruffled her fingers through his delightfully fluffy hair. He shrank away from her as she laughed.  
"Isn't he just adorable, girls?" She cooed. "He's like a little lost puppy."

"Why are you doing this?" He demanded shakily. 

"Does are little doggy have questions now?" She gasped. "Last i knew, doggies weren't suppose to speak. Alex, be a dear and take him to the back. I don't want to see this pup again until he's full grown."

"You got it, Chief." Alex and Mikaela started to pull him away. 

"Wait!" He shouted, struggling against the girls' iron grip. Courtney raised a hand for them to stop. 

"What?" She demanded, her tone icy. 

"Please. You have me. You have the damn briefcase. You have everything you wanted. Please. Just leave my friends alone." 

"Hmm." She was intrigued. She really couldn't have picked better. "Such a hero, isn't he, girls?" She sighed romantically. She turned back to him. "What makes you think they're still your friends? You killed one of them." He flinched away from her. She grinned. "I saw the coroner's report, singer boy. The man had the life choked out of him. With a length of rope. Hell of a way to go."

"I know." Patrick managed, his voice low. "I was there." 

"And you think your so-called friends will just get over it? Forgive you? Accept you back with open arms? Are all you musicians that delirious?" 

Patrick took in a deep, shaky breath. "They can not like me all they want. I will always care for them. Please. Let them run. Leave them out of this." 

She smiled as the two words fell from her lips. "Beg me."

The singer looked at his feet and gulped. "Courtney-"

"On your knees." She added maliciously. 

He stared up at her as Alex shoved him onto the ground.  
"Courtney, please." His voice wavered. "Look at me. I'm begging you. Leave them be. I'll do anything you want."

"Oh, i already know that." She winked. "But I'm not quite convinced. Tell me how great i am." She was just being petty now. But it was fun. The look on his face was more than worth it. 

"What?"

"You have to be willing to sing for your supper." She licked her lips. "Now, roll over, Spot. And be specific."

"Courtney," he started, somewhat uncertainly, "you are, to put it simply, the most amazing woman, no, person on this entire planet. Your work is a blessing upon the earth and everyday with you in it is a better one. Your personality is simply the best. There are no adjectives to accurately describe your beauty, but i will try. Flawless. Dazzling. Lovely. Brilliant. Shining. Gorgeous. Radiant. You are goddess among us mortals. I am truly honored to be in your presence."

"He's certainly got a way with words, hasn't he?" Courtney sighed romantically. "Good boy." She patted his head condescendingly."Alright then, Patrick, I've made up my mind."  
Mikaela pulled him back up to his feet. Courtney got right up in his face.  
"I won't go anywhere near your friends. Not because you asked oh-so sweetly, but because i don't need to. They will come to me. And how do i know that?" She continued, as the girls restrained him from jumping at her. "Not only do i have the briefcase, but i have you. You boys are birds of a feather. You'll do anything for each other. And the best part is, you're going to be there when they get here. Well, i suppose you're not. But my part of you is. You won't recognize them. Oh, but they'll recognize you alright. It will be so deliciously painful. Who knows what you'll do to them. I cannot wait. So, you're sacrifice was most touching and appreciated, but, in the end, completely and utterly futile. Take him away."

The girls dragged him across the room, all the while him thrashing against them, yelling angrily at her. She sighed happily. For their first meeting, that had gone considerably nicely. 

"Now, where is Natalie?" She called out to no one in particular. 

"Natalie, Chief?" Erica responded in a bored tone. 

"The tall blonde one. She was supposed to report in with me yesterday."

"Oh, yes i remember. Haven't seen her in three days." Erica announced. 

"Hmm." Courtney thought. "Strange. I asked her to come see me. There are some things we still need to discuss. Go ask around. See if anyone has seen her. I'll be in my office. Also, the footage. Make sure it's distributed properly."

"You got it, Chief."

"No mistakes, Erica."

"None."

The girl sauntered off as Courtney turned and climbed back up the staircase to her office.  
She at least had the decency of character not to envy what the male singer was about to endure. Imagine every memory you have ever had, everything you've lived through, everything that makes you you. Your friends, your actions, your inspirations. Imagine all the things that make you happy in the world. Imagine those memories preserved as pictures, a precious moment saved into a fraction of time. Imagine flipping through those pictures, the ones that make you who you are.  
Now, imagine them being taken from you. But not only taken. Someone has twisted, manipulated, changed your photos, and then shoved them back into you as your own. But they're not yours anymore. Not really. The memories are still there now, but instead of happiness or tranquility when you think of them, there is only anger. Pure, unaided rage. Anything you see makes you angry and you stay that way; there's nothing to bring you back.  
Imagine being shown those pictures. All of the memories that used to be good, happy, but now hold only spite and ferocity. Imagine being shown them rapidly, one right after the other, without a reprieve or a moment to breathe.  
Now imagine that. Imagine being angry non-stop. But not just angry: furious, livid, at a constant 10. It changes you. There is no room for things like compassion and remorse. It's impossible to even pretend to be who you were. You were-...she didn't want to call it 'evil' but there really wasn't another word for it. They'd be pure evil and it was glorious.  
That's what this man was about to go through. He wouldn't be himself, perhaps, hopefully, ever again. She didn't want him to be himself anymore, so it was perfect, really. Did she feel remorse? No. Pity? No. But she didn't envy him. He'd be going through psychological changes unlike anything any human had ever faced. She certainly didn't want to go through that kind of torture. Though, she was already exactly where she needed herself to be, so why should she?  
It was a simple process, really. They had already started, back at the hospital chapel a good long while ago. Through much trial and much error, they had figured out the frequencies at which the memories could be altered. Now they had created a computer system that could extract those memories and literally show them to him. When he was all wired in, they could project the memories onto the wall in front of him. At the same time, they'd be perfecting the frequency, though he wouldn't notice. The insisting ringing behind his eyes would be just background noise. He would be forced to stare at his own twisted memories, becoming more and more vengeful, until it consumes him. Perhaps it would take minutes, perhaps hours. It was all guesswork and circumstances. Based on the strength her singer had shown so far, this was shaping up to be a long and arduous process.  
It should be fun.  
She wasn't going to be present, though. Not even Alex and Mikaela would actually be in the room where it happened. The singer would be in that room, alone with his memories.  
For the next hour or two, Courtney sat at her desk, contemplating. There was a lot to think about, what with her experiments, the newfound media exposure, everything. She had to make sure she could keep a cool head, keep it all organized. She lost track of time. Then someone knocked on her door. She looked up expectantly, trying not to let on how excited she was.  
Her girls walked in with her monster. 

"He's ready."

She let out a breath of air. He was everything she had ever imagined, ever hoped for. It was still the singer's features, though it stood taller somehow, stronger. His teeth seemed permanently clenched, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes...oh, his eyes. They were easily the most changed thing about him. The normal green-blue tint completely gone, replaced by a piercing, iridescent yellow. Courtney smiled. 

"Isn't he just lovely?" She sighed contentedly. 

"Indeed." Alex nodded. 

"Leave us." Courtney waved her hand. "I need to make sure..."

"One thing." The girl bravely interjected. "We ran into Erica on the way up. Natalie's card just popped up on the data base."

"Well, where is she?" Courtney huffed. She didn't have time for this. 

"She came in the back entrance. We haven't seen her yet."

"Well when you do, send her here. I want to talk to her. But not until after I'm done. Now go!"

The two girls turned and went, closing the door behind them. Courtney was left alone with her little demon. 

"Well, hello." She looked him over again. Perfection, really. He stared at her, slightly confused. "I'm Courtney. I'm in charge, got it? You're going to do everything i say." 

Her creature tilted it's head in understanding. 

"Good. We should get along splendidly." A light smile played on her lips. "Now, this doesn't mean i never want you to make your own decisions. Here." She pulled an small snare drum out from behind. She had to make sure this thing had her effort's best interests at heart. She held out the drum for him to take.  
He grabbed it lightly from her hands and examined it for a moment. She held her hands to her mouth in anticipation. He had started out on the drums. If she could get him to-  
He raised the instrument above his head and smashed it roughly against the ground.  
She broke out into an elated grin, but tried to hide it by biting her lip. She pulled an old record out of her desk drawer and handed it to him. Within seconds it was it hundreds of little pieces scattered on her floor. She allowed herself a delighted laugh as she excitedly held out a guitar. He immediately took it from her, and held it in his hand. She held her breath. This was the most important one. This was his instrument. He played guitar every show he played. If he could smash it, something she knew he'd never done before...  
He hesitated, studying, staring at the item with curiosity that border-lined on familiarity. But only for a second. Then it was gone. The guitar hit the concrete with a beautiful crash, strings snapping, wood splintering at the contact. The base broke off of the neck, splitting the instrument in two clean pieces. He snarled. She couldn't have been more pleased. 

"Yes," she whispered. "Keep going."  
The being looked at the decapitated instrument ruefully as he stomped on it, along with the remains of the other two relics he had destroyed. Their fragments were being reduced to a pulp. 

"Yes!" She coaxed. "Yes!"  
He screamed as he thrust his hook through the guitar stings, ripping through them like putty. She took a step back allowing him to admire his good work. It took deep, quick breaths, staring down at the broken musical items.  
Suddenly he tensed, spinning around to face the door. As her eyes followed where he looked, the door burst violently open. She couldn't hide the smile on her face as she raised her hands next to her face. 

"Well, if it isn't the Defenders of the Faith. How did you two manage get in here?"

In through the door had appeared two men, the only two men she really wanted to see. Each one had a weapon fashioned from their respective musical instruments. How very fitting. It looked like she had a drum crossbow and a guitar spear directed at her. Andrew Hurley and Peter Wentz. What a pleasant surprise. Her eyes drifted to the familiar lanyard hanging out of Pete's pocket. The ones that normally had her key cards on them. 

"Natalie," she realized, muttering to herself. "I should have known. No way her past was a coincidence. Oh well. She can't hide for long."

"Watch it, bitch." Andy growled protectively. 

"That's Head Bitch to you." She corrected him with pleasure. "Head Bitch in Charge if your small brains can manage all of the syllables."

"Shh." The bassist wisely stopped his friend from pushing her further. His eyes scanned the room thoroughly. They lingered longingly for a moment on Patrick, or rather, on her puppet. It was definitely not Patrick anymore. It stared angrily at them, but was not attacking yet. She feasted greedily on the pain behind the black-haired boy's eyes. He was searching for recognition, she could see it, and sense that his friend was still in there somewhere. He wasn't. Regretfully, they moved passed him and landed on something else.  
The briefcase.  
Oh, they were good. They were very good. Oh, yes, darling Natalie was going to pay dearly for this.  
Andy kept his crossbow trained at her chest, daring her to move. She didn't. Without a word, Pete lunged at the metal case, clasping it's shiny handle in his fist. He turned and nodded at his drummer. 

"Go!" Andy urged, waving his hand. "I'll be right behind you."

Pete didn't hesitate. He turned and dashed out of the room, her precious case secure in his filthy hands. But her creature was right there after him. Andy barely paid attention as Patrick ran, grunting furiously, out of the room chasing after the man who used to be his friend. That wasn't going to end well. The drummer kept the bow pointed at her. 

"So now what?" She asked, letting her hands fall back to her sides. "It's just the two of us. No one else. Anything could happen."

He looked at her with disgust. "I should kill you where you stand."

"That's not very nice," she scolded as she walked casually behind her desk and took a seat. She was all too aware of the arrow still trained at her from a short range. "We've barely even properly met."

"I don't need to meet you to know that you're a snake." He growled. 

"Who would have thought you'd ever have so much to say," she mused with a smile playing on her face. "Aren't you the quiet one?"

"Sometimes things have to change, don't they?" He asked, the edge not fading from his voice. 

"You think so?" She asked. "We are on the same side, then."

He took a step back. "No. Never. Not even a little. You and i are not on the same side of anything."

"This is bigger than just you and me," she told him nonchalantly, crossing her feet up on the tabletop. "Change is inevitable, Andrew Hurley. I am just the instrument to that change."

"You've hurt people." His voice was shaking. "Lot's of people. People i care about. You can't just expect me to be okay with that." 

"Sometimes lives are necessary to complete an operation. It's sad but that's the way things go." She looked him up and down. "Your's is not one i would particularly miss."

"You're insane!" He shouted, hoisting his weapon higher. He began backing out the door. "You had better stay away from me and my friends. If i see you again, or hear tell of you continuing this stupid operation, i swear to god, i will hunt you down and kill you myself."

"You mean, what's left of your friends?" She purred. 

His went slack and pale. His weapon slowly fell to his side. He did not hear the two girls walking up behind him. He didn't notice the short dagger clutched tightly in Mikaela's fist. He didn't feel her raising the weapon to his exposed neck.  
He did feel it when the blade sliced across his skin, opening his throat like a velvet box.  
Blood began to seep quickly from the crevices of his flesh, as he gasped in pain and surprise. His bow dropped to the floor as his hands flew to the wound to try and stop the bleeding, but his efforts were in vain. It was far too late for him. He sunk suddenly to the floor, choking on his own blood, which pooled on the concrete beneath him. 

Courtney kissed her fingers and waved them in parting at him. "Goodnight, my sweet drummer." She said lazily. His cold eyes stared up at her, fingers still reaching towards his throat. "Thank you girls. Could you move him, though? He's staining the carpet."

"What about Peter?" Alex asked as they began hauling his corpse away. "He made it out of the base."

"Oh, don't you worry about him." She laughed lightly. "The hound ran off after him. There's no way he'll last long. Take Carla along with you to grab my briefcase back when they're done. We're ready to give it to the others."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a really long time, i apologize guys. With school and everything i was swamped. I'll try to get the next one out sooner. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	10. Miss Missing You

> **Sometimes before it gets better the darkness gets bigger, the person that you'd take a bullet for us behind the trigger.**

 

 **They just sat back, laughing at the wounded city, each breath sucking in ashes and fumes. Oh, it bled alright, drier than war county, all expatriate hurrying to found to nations of blinding dust. But the two of them, they just squinted at that pipe cleaner skyline, and it burned hot in their oil-slick pupils. Knowing that they were paid to remember the past, he blew out a hot breath and said "Burn it all".**

This was bad. Really bad. As a matter of fact, Pete didn't see a whole lot of ways that could have gone any worse. Okay, so he supposed there were some goods; he was alive, he had the briefcase, he... Nope, that was really it. He was running through the hottest desert in America, no idea where he was headed, trying to avoid his best friend, who was trying to kill him, and he was completely alone. He had no one to go to anymore. There was no way Natalie was an option. Courtney had immediately known it was her and had undoubtably send people after her by now. He couldn't put his other friends or family in this danger. And Andy... There was no doubt in his mind. Andy was dead. Pete knew he was. He felt it in his gut. He knew he shouldn't have run out without him. He just ran away and left him for dead. The bassist had seen how many girls there were on his way out of there. They had all stopped smashing instruments as he dashed past them, watching Patrick chase him out of the warehouse. Not even Andy Hurley could fight his way out of that one.

The briefcase, the stupid briefcase, was growing heavier in his hand by the second. He wished Patrick had never found the dumb thing, that it had just stayed out of their lives. None of this would have happened if they had just let it stay hidden, wherever it had been. Not that he blamed Patrick. Of course he didn't. He couldn't. It was Courtney's fault. The Head Bitch. She was the crazy one who had them kidnapped and tortured. The thing was more trouble than it was worth.

Was it though?

Deep down, Pete knew that was a lie. They had to find it. If they had gotten any inkling to where it might be, they had to pursue it. This thing inside this briefcase was too dangerous to leave out there. If someone who knew how to use it got there hands on it, it could be the end of the world as they knew it.

No, it had to be found, to be kept safe. Pete just wished it hadn't been them who had found it. 

He adjusted his hold on his guitar spear, trying to keep it from slipping out of his sweaty fingers. The weapon was beautifully crafted; perfectly balanced, impossibly sharp. He had to be careful running with it. He didn't want to be the idiot who fell on his spear. He hadn't bothered to tell Natalie or Andy, but he'd never actually used a spear before. Not once. He had no idea what to do with it. Do you use like a sword? Throw it like a javelin? He didn't know. And he desperately hoped he wouldn't have to know, though, the way things were going, it didn't seem like not using it was going to be an option. 

Pete leapt, agile, but tired, over a small bush to get to the top of an incline. There was a path up there that would be easier to walk on, with far less things like cactuses to step on. He slowed to a stumbling walk. He was tired. He was parched. He was burning up in the intense heat. His legs ached painfully. He hoped this path actually led somewhere. Glancing around anxiously, Pete continued down the dirt trail. The air was still. Humid, no breeze. It was quiet. Not silent, just quiet. Maybe he had lost him. He slowed himself to a stop. Trying to catch his breath, he doubled over, putting his hands on his knees. 

Of course, as soon as that thought crossed his mind, he heard bushed rustling behind him. He glanced wearily over his shoulder. Dammit.  
For a moment he and not-Patrick stared at each other. The being didn't seem to ever tire. It's glowing yellow eyes, alive as ever, bore into his, without sympathy, without recognition. Then he snarled like a wolf and Pete broke into a sprint down the hill. 

"It's not Patrick. It's not him," he kept reminding himself tearfully as he ran. 

Blowing sand ripped at his face, stinging his skin. It was so hot. The bright sun made it feel like it was a million degrees. Pete was losing stamina quickly, and he knew it. There was no way he could outrun this thing. He had to hide. It was his best bet. The problem was, he was on a flat, open road. The hill had led down to a road. Not paved very well, but it was definitely a road. He was stumbling down it, trying not to lose his footing. He glanced almost obsessively over his shoulder, seeing where Patrick was, how close he was getting. 

Beyond him, he noticed something else. He heard them long before he saw them. A low rumbling noise that shook the earth. He recognized it immediately. 

Motorcycles. 

Were there actual people out here? Out in the middle of Death Valley? Maybe they could pick him up, help him out,-  
His hopes were dashed as soon as the were close enough for him to see them properly. They were girls, all clad head-to-toe in black leather. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't be considered odd or noteworthy; it was two female motorcyclists in leather, which is what they often wear. However, with how things had been going, he wasn't about to stop them and ask for help. He wasn't going to take the unnecessary risk. He was just going to keep running and pray they didn't stop. 

For better or for worse, the motorcyclists sped right past him, showering him in dust and sand. He stumbled, wiping residue out of his eyes. They quickly disappeared on the horizon. After another minute of running, Pete checked behind his shoulder, he was startled to see that Patrick was not there. He was just gone. Had he lost him? Had he been hit by a motorcycle? Had he tripped and fallen? Pete didn't know and he didn't care. He needed to hide until he could double back and head into civilization. Maybe catch a plane. He came around a corner and was faced with an old abandoned car lot. He had no idea what it was doing out here, but he wasn't about to waste time thinking about it. He'd wanted some place to hide. He'd found one. 

He leapt over the rotting fence, and started darting through cars. Most of them had windows rolled down, or were just missing them altogether, so at least he wouldn't have a problem getting in one. About halfway through the lot, he picked one, throwing the briefcase through the open window and jumping in after it. The guitarist ducked under the dashboard and waited. 

The heat was worse inside the car. It trapped it like an oven. Pete felt like he was melting. The briefcase held the sunlight like a thermos, and he could feel it searing his palms. He let go of it quickly, but he could still feel the heat against his leg. He kept his spear tight against his chest, praying he wouldn't be found.  
Eventually, waiting became purely torturous. He didn't know what had happened to Patrick or if he was even coming in this direction. What if he had really lost him? If so, how long did he have to stay hidden? Pete wasn't sure when it would be safe to leave the car and try to find help. He wasn't going to move until he was certain. 

Unfortunately, he was soon certain. At first, there was a strange stillness to the air. All of the noises Pete hadn't realized were there ceased simultaneously. Then he heard the crunching of footsteps on sand and gravel. He knew Patrick's footfall, and was it. Almost. Like everything else, something was off, wrong. But it was definitely him. He dared to peek out over the edge of the windowsill. Fortunately, Patrick did not see him. Unfortunately, someone else already knew he was there. 

A girl, young, maybe a teenager, with a freckled face and a meager form, was sitting in another car, holding a doll that was missing an eye. Her brown hair was stringy and unwashed. Her teeth seemed to be permanently stuck in a grit. As Patrick neared her, she moved, almost insect-like, out the window of the car, and pointed a thin, spindly finger directly at Pete. 

"Shit." The bassist tossed the briefcase of the window and then jumped out after it, spear in hand. He hit the ground hard, and managed to pick the case up, just as the creature that had been his friend was reaching the car. Pete bolted in the opposite direction, not sure where they were headed, but not caring either. He leapt up on top of the hood of one of the cars and started running over them, jumping from car to car. Patrick was right behind him. 

Randomly, he decided to turn, jumping to the ground and dashing away at a 90 degree angle. They reached the edge of the car lot and were met with... a trailer park. In the middle of the desert. Pete tried not to think about it. He didn't have the time or energy.  
He squeezed between a plated trailer and a white picket fence, pushing a shelf to the ground. Sitting in the dry dirt of the yard there were a couple small statues of Jesus, and some crosses, along with a sprinkler. There were also two men. One was a young man in a white shirt touching up the fence with white paint. He had a chain wrapped around his neck, which was being pulled by a large man, forcing him up against the fence. The large man also had a watering can, with which he was watering the statues. 

"What the fuck is happening?" Pete asked himself. 

He held up the briefcase by his face to avoid being soaked by the sprinkler as he bolted out of the yard. Water ran across the dirt beneath his feet. He could hear the Thing running closely behind him. He pushed on.  
Looking around, one might have thought the trailer park was abandoned. Things were falling apart; roof shingles lying on the ground, everything was covered in a layer of dirt and mud and rust. He ran past a bench that had a bucket of mannequin limbs on it, along with a canister of gasoline. It was just creepy.  
He continued towards another trailer, hoping for some kind of exit or just an obstacle to slow the Thing down. He ran up the steps and through the open door, ignoring the strainers hanging on the wall, ignoring the old woman with the large eyes and the two knives. She seemed occupied with her block of wood that looked vaguely like an attempt at a violin. 

The inside was completely empty. Completely. Not just no furniture. The walls were metal and wood, with no siding. The ceiling was peeling, and there were just empty holes where the light fixtures should have been. The door frames were just empty spaces with no doors. Everything felt bland, wrong, in shades of grey.  
And the was no exit.  
Pete swore, spinning on his heels, hearing the Thing sprinting up the stairs. It's hook scraped against the metal wall. The bassist intercepted him, wrapping his arms around the Thing before it could grab him. 

"Patrick!" he pleaded, holding him a chokehold. "C'mon man! You can fight this."

The two wrestled around the empty space, stumbling against walls and windows. There was no recognition. Using the briefcase, Pete finally, shoved the Thing to the ground. While it was down, he turned and raced back out into the desert. He skipped the steps, leaping over them, and hit the ground running. He dashed behind a row of broken down trailers. He paused for a minute, panting. This was insane. Everything about this was insane. Even the weather was wrong. The whole time he had been out here, it had been windy as hell. Here, it was impossibly still. Sweat was just pouring off of him. The plants themselves seemed to be sweating, a black ooze that just seemed to be everywhere. Despite the heat, Pete shivered. 

He watched the being that used to be Patrick storm out of the old woman's trailer. It didn't see him. He watched it wander through the park, sniffing and grunting at any movement. It wandered toward a trailer decked out in wires. Through the gaping windows, Pete could see a young blonde girl with a pasta strainer on her head messing with nobs and buttons. Even from across the park, he noticed the look in the Thing's golden eyes when it saw her. He decided right then that he wasn't going to let it hurt her. She was a kid. Albeit a crazy kid in a crazy trailer park community in the middle of the hottest desert in America, but a kid nonetheless. He had regained enough breath to run back out there, so he did, heading right for Patrick's small figure. He collided with it, shoving the two of them against the wall of the trailer. The little girl did not notice. 

"Patrick!" he tried again. "Listen to me. You can fight this!"

The Thing roared and pushed Pete off of him. Well, at least he had it's attention, instead of the kid. He quickly regained his footing and bolted off, away from the kid's trailer. The Thing followed him, almost casually, slower than before. It was nearly more intimidating. It knew he had virtually nowhere to run. 

Pete leapt over a white lawn chair. It was in front of a large, above-ground pool, with a cage-like top. Inside, there was a young man swimming around with an inflatable alligator. Well, more like flailing around, splashing violently in the water. He ducked behind the pool, waiting for the Thing to catch up. He couldn't do this for much longer.  
Just through the splashes the man was creating, Pete caught a glimpse of Patrick's loose, dirty-blond hair. He started to get up, but the man was on him, hook raised. It swung at him, but he dodged, barely avoiding getting a hook across his cheek. The Thing grabbed the case with both "hands" and tried to pull it from Pete's grip. Since it only had one actual hand, Pete was able to grab it back pretty easily. He bolted, with the Thing right behind him. 

Pete dashed into the nearest trailer. There were curtains outside blowing ominously, despite the lack of wind. This trailer was slightly more complex than the last one he'd been in. It had actual furniture, however minimal, and a corridor. The wood was still dusty, and cracked. The inside curtains were less canvas more sheer and paisley. He rushed down the hall, only steps ahead of his former friend. He could hear it panting and grunting behind him. At the other end, there was a dusty couch in front of an old fashioned television. On the couch, there was an old woman in a flower dress, sporting a gas mask. She had a remote, and was pressing buttons, despite the tv clearly being off. It probably hadn't worked in years. She did not react as the Thing tackled Pete from behind, pushing him to the ground. He dropped the case. Dust and smoke started pouring into the trailer as the Thing got on top of Pete, choking him. He was gasping for breath, despite the air starting to taste utterly toxic. He understood why the woman was wearing the mask. 

"P-Patrick!" he coughed. 

Nothing. His friend was really gone.  
He rolled to his side, twisting the creature off of him and grabbed the briefcase. He pushed his way out of the trailer, which, thankfully, had a back door. Smoke poured into the still desert air. He leapt out, briefcase slipping from his fingers as he fell to the ground, coughing, desperate for clean air. He was still coughing when he got back to his feet. The creature reached the case the same time he did. He easily grabbed it from him and kept running.  
Outside the trailer, there were two people in swimsuits. One was a wrinkled man drinking something from a brown paper bag. He was sitting in a broken tanning bed. The other was a woman in a bikini. She had a plastic gallon of water which she was slowly pouring all over herself.  
Pete ignored them and tried to put more distance between him and Patrick. He ran around another home, glancing over his shoulder. It was getting closer. He thought as he ran. It was always getting closer. He had nowhere to run. He had no idea where he was. It was hot. There were sandy mountains everywhere he looked. No one here was going to give him refuge or protection.  
And he couldn't just keep running forever.  
He glanced at the briefcase. This had to end, for better or for worse. 

Pete skidded to a stop, his momentum kicking up dirt and sand. He turned to face the being that had been Patrick, holding out his guitar-spear. 

"Don't make me do this," he pleaded. 

The being only barely slowed down, and the two walked directly at each other. When they reached the other, Pete raised his spear, and Patrick punched him hard in the gut. He collapsed in pain, remembering when something similar had happened in that parking lot. Back when Joe and Andy had been alive. That had been barely three days ago. How had so much changed?  
Both the spear and the case were flung from his hand, as the Thing grabbed his collar and aimed it's hook for his face.  
He remembered when they had been attacked by the gang of children in the park. The boys had tackled him to the ground, just like this, and beat the crap out of him. He wasn't anxious to repeat the experience. He caught the Thing's arm before it reached him. Pete rolled him off, the two of them wrestling each other in the dirt.  
While desperately holding Patrick on the ground as it pushed back against him, Pete noticed the citizens of the trailer park congregating around them. They were all there, from the big macho guy to the little girl, shouting, cheering, edging them on. What the hell was wrong with these people?  
He shoved the Thing to the ground and raced over to grab his spear, finally back on his feet. 

"Please," Pete begged. He needed his friend to hear him. He didn't want to hurt him but he would if he had to. He clutched his spear tightly in his fists.  
Not a sign of recognition. 

Pete remembered, back at the beginning of all this, when they had first been captured by the psycho bitches in black. He had been in a straight jacket. He had manipulated a girl to take it off of him. He had taken the hook that was now where Patrick's hand used to be and smashed it into her head. 

"I'm sorry." 

It was more than not wanting to die. He knew he was going to die. He didn't want the Head Bitch to have control of his best friend. To make him kill people. He wouldn't have wanted to live like that. Tears in his eyes, Pete took his spear and stabbed it into his friend's gut. 

Obviously, not immediately dead, the Thing reacted. It swung at Pete tossing him off of him. It pinned Pete's arms down and raised it's hook. He tried to push him off, but the Thing was surprisingly strong. It had obviously learned from the past times Pete had been able to push him off be rolling onto his side. Pete was stuck. Done for.  
He had another flashback to the children in the forest. The boys leaping over the fallen tree, hitting him with their blunt metal instruments. He remembered the sounds of his cries in his ears. The pain, the blood.  
The Thing swung the hook into his chest.  
Pete's screams of agony were only matched by the collective cries of glee from the citizens. He looked his friend in the demonic glowing yellow eyes as he gasped for breath and tried desperately to plead to him. Maybe this time he would hear him. 

The hook fell again. And again. And again. And again. Long after Pete Wentz was dead, after the sky had turned from a dull grey to a dark black. The people were still cheering, fists in the air, yelling with utter joy and glee. 

-

Big Sean was turning off the radio, begging Patrick to stop and listen to him. 

His hands were clutching the black cord, holding it tighter and tighter against Joe's throat. The light left his friend's eyes. 

A girl walked up behind Andy and mercilessly slit his throat. Patrick noticed and didn't care. He kept chasing after Pete, knowing he had to get that briefcase, no matter the cost. 

Anger. Pain. Everything was red. 

Patrick took a step back. His anger was fading. He was suddenly anxious. Extremely so. What had he done this time? He glanced down. 

"God. No..." 

He looked at the small gashes all us and down Pete's abdomen. Open and still bleeding. Just the right size for his hook. 

"I did this," he whispered. 

Around him, a collection of strangely-dressed people were gathered, screaming wildly, happily, like the fans at their concerts used to. Had they been entertainment for them?

Something was wrong. His gut was aching. His shirt felt wet. He looked down to find it stained a deep red. He touched it and his fingers came back the same color. He was bleeding. Blood started trickling from between his lips. He felt suddenly dizzy, lightheaded. The world seemed to spin. He lost his fitting and found himself crashing into the dirt and sand. His hand barely caught him before he collapsed onto his back, panting. Patrick knew he had been stabbed. He saw the spear that looked like the neck of a bass next to Pete's body and understood. He wasn't mad at him. Just sad, and sorry that it had come to that. The people around them dissociated as his breathing slowed. 

Two girls in black leather and stilettos walked up on either side of them. One had a fierce mohawk. The other Patrick thought he maybe recognized. Neither girl looked at them. Mohawk girl casually picked up the briefcase. The two nodded at each other, smiling, before sauntering briskly away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!
> 
> I know, I know. I'm sorry this one took so long. I'm the only one writing this, and I took a quick break to finish that Hunger Games/Supernatural fic I started forever ago, but I finally finished this one.  
> I hope you enjoyed it.  
> Thank you so much for reading.


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